Night on the Mountain
by RaisingAmara
Summary: When Dad kicks him out one cold night at the tender age of 15, Sam embraces his newfound freedom and steps onto the unforgiving Appalachian Trail to chase a grand adventure. Dean thinks he can find his brother before anything too bad happens, but he doesn't count on the ghost of the AT killer beating him to the punch.
1. Chapter 1

"You wouldn't be treating me like this if Dean was here." Sam huffed, his teenage angst on overdrive.

"You don't act up like this when your brother's around." John threw back. "Now I said these weapons need cleaning, and that means you stop what you're doing and damned well clean them."

"Like a good little slave, right? It doesn't matter that I have an advanced placement test to study for, does it? If I blow that, I'm stuck in those dumb remedial classes they dropped me in because they categorized me as an itinerant student."

"What the hell does that even mean, Sam?"

"It means I've been in so many schools this year, they think there's something wrong with me, Dad! They think I'm dumb! Thanks to you!"

John stepped close to his son. "Watch yourself, Sam. You WILL speak to me with respect."

"You don't earn respect! You don't care about anything that's important to me! You SUCK, Dad!"

The blow, when it came, cracked like a gunshot in the small motel room. Sam's slight body rocketed off the wall, bounced off the edge of the beat-up table and landed on the floor at the foot of Dean's bed. Blood ran from his nose in rivulets and stained the carpet next to his brother's duffle.

Sam's eyes watered, but he refused to give his father the satisfaction of seeing him cry. They'd gone at it before, true. But John had never hit him. Not across the mouth. Not like this.

"You ready to clean those weapons now, Sam?"

Sam sat on the crusty carpet, staring up at his father with hatred. His hand held his face where John had struck him. "Screw you!" He spit out with all the venom he could muster.

John eyes went hard. He reached down and grabbed Sam by his shirtfront, hauling him to his feet. "What did you say to me, boy?"

"I said, 'Screw you, SIR!'" Sam ground out, unable to help himself.

John smiled then, but it was bleak expression, devoid of warmth. "That's what I thought you said." the older man nodded. He opened up the door to a blast of brisk fall wind and shoved Sam unceremoniously through it. He put all the force he could muster into the push, and the fifteen-year-old was propelled right off the sidewalk and out onto the unforgiving gravel of the parking lot where he eventually rolled to a stop. He sat up carefully, holding his forehead where it had bounced forcefully off the pavement. He looked up just in time to catch his duffle bag right in the face. Next came Dean's sleeping bag because Sam didn't have one of his own.

"Why don't you take that mouth somewhere else, cause it sure as hell ain't stayin' here tonight?" John said calmly, leaning casually in the doorway.

Sam's body shuddered with sobs he tried desperately not to release. It wasn't just the cruel and unfeeling treatment he'd gotten from the man who was supposed to be looking out for him, he was somewhat used to that. But his father's beating freaking hurt. Sam was sure he had a concussion from hitting the ground so hard. His nose might be broken too; he wasn't sure.

The pain cowled him instantly. "Dad! Please! I … I'll clean them!" Sam stumbled to his feet, his head moments from exploding. "I'm sorry, okay!"

But John wasn't moved. "Are you now? Well, that's good to hear, Sam. You go find some place to cool your heels tonight, and you can come back in the morning. Maybe. If you lose the shit attitude."

Sam stood, looking at his father standing in the doorway like a blockade - as fixed and unyielding as a fence post - and he realized the man wasn't going to give.

"Dad … please." Sam hated himself for the hitch in his voice.

"Way to take it like a man, Sam." John said, ice in his voice. He stepped back inside and closed the door behind him. And the last sound Sam heard was the snick of the lock falling coldly into place.

He stood still for a moment, weighing his options. Dean would be back from the laundromat in an hour or so. He could wait for him and risk Dad's wrath again.

Or, he could just go.

John had just given him an out. Sam could take it and run with it. It would mean leaving Dean, which would rip Sam's heart out, but it would also mean freedom.

Freedom from the hunt. Freedom from the blood and the gore and the smell of burning dead things. Freedom from knife wounds and claw slashes and fear.

Freedom from a father who seemed to hate him more by the day.

Sam could leave. He could catch up with Dean later.

Sam did a quick inventory of his duffle. No phone. No laptop either. No cash. Just some extra clothes, a water bottle and the knife Dean had given him. He felt behind him, relieved to note his wallet was still in his back pocket. One of Dad's fake credit cards was in there, but Sam wasn't entirely sure his pride would let him use it - even in a pinch. And anyway, knowing Dad, he'd call and report it stolen as soon as he realized Sam was missing.

Life lesson and all that.

Sam made a decision. It was enough. He would call Dean from a payphone when he got his bearings. Or, he would stop in at a library and email him.

Sam turned. Suddenly, he felt something bloom in his chest that felt strangely like hope. Maybe tonight marked a beginning for him - a chance to get away and find a better life. It was what he'd been wanting, and Dad had just given Sam his blessing to go after it. He made up his mind.

Sam gathered his duffle and Dean's sleeping bag and staggered off into the woods.

It was a window of opportunity, and the fifteen-year-old stumbled awkwardly through it, leaving just a lifetime of pain and a fine mist of blood in his wake.


	2. A Small Deception

John tossed back the last of the bottle. Who said whiskey couldn't solve everything? He sighed, glancing at his watch. The dial was a bit fuzzy, but it looked as though about an hour had passed since he'd tossed his disrespectful son out on an ear.

Teenagers.

Damn.

Dean had never been like that.

And speaking of Dean, the boy would be back anytime, and then there'd be hell to pay. No doubt Sam would waylay him along the way and tattle on the old man.

Dean would be pissed.

John was pretty sure he'd broken his son's nose with that first punch, and he felt a niggle of remorse.

The mouthy little bastard deserved it, but John knew his eldest wouldn't see it that way.

He sighed again.

No, Dean and Sam had this … thing. This closeness, that set them apart from other brothers. At different times, John was both proud of and irritated by it. Sometimes, he was just plain old jealous.

Anytime Dean was hurting, it was Sam he wanted, and vice versa. Sometimes John would like to be the one everyone looked up to, but it had never been that way.

That's why when Dean made it back and saw Sam's face … well … it wasn't going to be pretty.

He should just suck it up and let Sam back in now. It would give him time to do a little smoothing over before the crap really hit the fan.

Damage control, you know.

John snorted. Whiny little shit would start back in right away with his homework and his tests and his wanting to go to college some day.

Screw it. Let him out there.

John didn't feel like listening to it all over again. Nothing he ever said to his youngest ever meant a damned thing. The kid was disrespectful and clueless when it came to hunting. He'd rather bury his face in a book than toast a wendigo.

John didn't understand that a bit.

The thrill of the hunt - it was everything.

Dean got it. John got it. Why the hell didn't Sam get it? It was like he wasn't even a Winchester at times. John had never voiced the thought out loud, but sometimes he wondered if Sam was even his son. He'd been working so much those last two years before Mary had died, trying so hard to make the mortgage on that house. What if she'd found someone else?

John entertained that thought seriously for a moment. What if she had? Sam might not be Dean's brother after all - half-brother maybe.

Wouldn't that be something?

John pictured the look on Dean's face should he ever mention his theory. Then he pictured his oldest son's fist coming straight at his chops, and decided this was one thought that should probably stayed shelved for the duration.

Sam would be back, of that much John was sure. There was no keeping him and his brother apart. And he knew if he ever tried, that he'd lose Dean too. There was no doubt in his mind - his sons would always choose each other over their father.

The thought made him sad.

Somewhere along the way, he'd failed as a parent. Maybe not so much with Dean, but by not doing right by Sammy - well - that was an even bigger thorn in his oldest son's side. Hurt Dean, and you got a fist to the face. Hurt Sam, and ... well …

Some mistakes had no margin for forgiveness, at least in Dean's eyes. And John was well aware that he'd crossed a line this night.

Yep. Shit was gonna fly.

John groaned just thinking about it.

From somewhere on the bed, his phone blipped. He staggered over and dug it out of the duffle, squinting to see who'd sent him a text.

Dean.

" _Everything cool there? Done here. Might go grab a beer across the street?"_

Leave it to his oldest to find a laundromat parked across the street from a barroom.

This was good though. It bought him a little more time. He was quick to answer.

" _We're fine. Go take some downtime, son. You've earned it."_

He frowned when another blip sounded from across the room.

Shit.

He'd tossed Sammy out without his phone.

He slipped over to the other bed and lifted the phone from the nightstand where it had been neatly placed next to his son's textbook. He looked at the screen.

" _You and Dad okay? I might go get a drink at the bar across the way?"_

Well, this presented a problem.

John sat still, debating. Would this make him the biggest shit in the world? He was still wrestling with his conscience when the phone blipped again.

" _Sammy?"_

It was only another minute or two of indecision when the screen lit up again.

" _Right. I'm on my way."_

John snorted, shaking his head. Like clockwork, he thought. Feeling guilty, he began texting back.

" _No, we're good. Sorry. Was in the bathroom."_

" _You sure, bitch? I can come back. The barroom beauties can live without me for one more night."_

John snorted. He wished Dean felt comfortable enough to joke around like this with his father.

" _Yeah, jerk. Stop worrying already."_ That should do it.

" _Fine then. Don't wait up, Samantha."_

" _Wouldn't dream of it."_

John deleted the conversation, and placed the phone carefully back on the nightstand, wondering casually if he'd just pounded another nail into his coffin.

Oh well. At least it gave him a few more hours of peace before the walls came crashing down.

He stumbled over to the couch and stretched out, sighing.

For such a shitty motel room, it was a damned comfortable couch.

He drifted off.


	3. Dawn Breaks

Always the gentlemen, Dean opened the car door for his date and reached a hand down to help her out. Her name was Magda, and she was totally worth all the time he'd put into charming the pants right off her. He pulled her into a long, lingering kiss and then pulled away, smiling.

"Thanks for the good time, baby." He winked.

She grinned back. "Anytime, Dean." She answered, blushing. "And I do mean anytime. If you're ever out this way again …"

"Oh, I will most definitely look you up, sweetheart." Dean promised, watching as she dug out her key. He saw her to her apartment door with a final kiss, then turned away as she slipped inside. Off in the distance, the sun was making its first appearance, turning the bleak, Maryland landscape into something warm and vital.

He yawned, stretching.

Damn, he felt good.

As much as he loved spending time with his kid brother, it sure felt good to get away once in awhile - be an adult, do adult things.

And oh, the adults things Magda could do …

Wow.

He needed food, and he needed it now. He slipped behind the wheel and pointed the old Impala back toward the Super 12 Motel. He was sure he'd seen a Denny's back along this way. The restaurant was the perfect choice for Winchesters because it offered all the greasy bacon and eggs he and his dad could manage while still serving up that veggie skillet thing that Sammy loved.

Dean shuddered, broccoli for breakfast. Ugh.

He found the place easily enough, heading inside and washing up before placing his order.

As he stood in the take-out line, his attention was drawn to a kid roughly Sam's age. The boy's choppy hair was long and rebellious, hanging down over his face to mostly hide his eyes, and his arms beneath his short-sleeved shirt bore horrendous track marks. The kid was obviously coming down off something because he sat in the booth shivering, the omelet in front of him untouched. As Dean watched, the boy's attention turned to the family seated across from him, and when the boy raised his eyes to see them better, Dean thought he saw something that looked like longing.

And just like that, Dean felt a shiver pass over him. The kid looked enough like Sam to be a close relative, and was nearly the same age. As he watched, an older man approached and grabbed the boy by his arm. He tugged him unceremoniously out of his seat and pulled him out the door, leaving the kid's food behind. Dean watched as the pair crossed the street to the truck stop and the older man pointed. The boy shook his head once and took a step back, but the man shook him hard, propelling him away across the lot. The boy went then, head ducked low. Dean watched as he approached a trucker, smiling. The man nodded, touching the boy on his shoulder in an unsettling way, then opened the door of his cab. The kid climbed in, the door closed, and Dean winced.

He felt sick.

Then it was his turn to order, and Dean went a little overboard. He ordered for himself and his father, then he got Sam the veggie skillet he loved so much, adding a cranberry chicken salad for later. He remembered how Sam had tried that once and loved it. The kid was fifteen and spindly as the day was long. Dean was always trying to fatten him up.

As he thought about his kid brother tucked warm and comfortably away in his bed, he took a final glance across the parking lot.

The truck sat still and silent in the early morning dawn, and in the Denny's parking lot, the older man who had pimped the kid out stood leaning against his late-model sports car, smoking a cigarette and smiling to himself.

Later, when the man returned to his car after having eaten his own hot breakfast, he'd stare in disbelief at the four flat tires and horrific key mark that stretched bumper to bumper across the side of the car that faced away from the restaurant.

But Dean would know nothing about that.


	4. Sam's Journey Begins

Sam hurt.

As he slipped out the other side of the woods behind the motel, he found a gas station with an outdoor restroom. He stumbled inside, took a first look at his face in the grimy mirror and snorted.

He was a mess.

He had a huge goose egg on his forehead, but he was happy to see both pupils the same size. And his nose was swollen, though he was thankful it didn't look broken. Using a wet paper towel, he wiped off the crusted blood that covered his lower face.

"Thanks, Dad." He whispered, trying not to tear up again. He missed Dean already, but his head was screaming, and crying just made the pain worse. Sam stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and came up with two dollars. He used it to buy a pouch of painkillers inside the gas station. Then, filling his water bottle at the outdoor spigot, he headed into the woods that bordered the interstate.

It was going on midnight before Sam found shelter. It was a small cabin tucked away in the thick woods, probably for hikers, and he was pleased to find it empty. He hunkered down inside, thankful for the warm, soft sleeping bag that smelled like Dean's aftershave. But even after he was comfortable and warm and using his duffle as a pillow, sleep eluded him.

Dean would freak when he got back and found Sam gone. And the guilt he felt at leaving his brother with no word at all was almost stronger than the relief he felt at finally being out from under Dad's smothering control.

Almost.

But Sam told himself that Dean would understand. Sam hadn't left willingingly - he'd been put out at the end of John's boot. Sure, maybe it was only supposed to be for a night, but Winchesters were never ones to let opportunities slip silently by.

He was finally away, and he was staying away. Somewhere down the road, he'd find his brother again. And he envisioned a life where he and Dean were free and independent - away from Dad, away from hunting.

And then he chuckled.

Dean would never leave the life. He'd never leave Dad. And if Sam forced him to choose, well … Sam didn't know if he could bear the outcome.

Better to leave things like this for now. Once he got strong and settled somewhere - then he could call Dean and tell him where he was. Then Dean could base his decision on what he actually wanted and needed and not on some misguided feeling that he needed to protect his little brother.

Then Sam remembered the advanced placement test that had started this whole debacle, and he had to laugh out loud at the irony of it all. Chances were good he'd never set foot inside a high school again, let alone a college.

And that hurt.

But as he drifted off to sleep to the sound of a screech owl hooting nearby, he was comforted by the thought that at least he'd never have to face off against an angry spirit ever again.

And that fact itself was worth the loneliness.


	5. Stone-Cold Morning

Dean grinned, opening the door quietly. He might be late, but hey … he'd brought everyone's favorite breakfast.

How mad could they be?

Surprisingly, no one greeted him with a gun pointed in his face. He called that a good day. Stepping quietly over the salt line and setting the bag down on the table, he headed straight for the shower - reaching out a hand to swat Sasquatch feet on the way.

Just to irritate Sam, of course.

But that wasn't Sam. That was just the weapons bag, half-buried beneath a crusty bedspread.

Dean frowned, glancing toward the second bed.

No Gigantor-shaped lump there either.

Dean frowned. The bathroom was empty. Dad was sawing logs in a major way on the couch.

Where the hell was Sam?

"Dad." Dean called out, loud in the quiet room.

Nothing.

"Hey Dad!" He called again, moving to stand over his father.

John snorted awake - sort of.

"Whas goin' on?" He blinked bleary eyes up at Dean, reaching for the knife he kept under the cushion.

"Nothin'. Just … where's Sam?" Dean demanded, brows forming a concerned grimace on his suddenly worried face.

He had a real bad feeling all of a sudden, and the scared, floppy-haired kid at the diner ghosted across his mind.

"Dad!" Dean was tired of pussy-footing around. "Where the hell is Sam?"

John sat up. Shit. Here it came. He rubbed a disoriented hand across his face, bracing himself for the start of WW III. "Gone."

Dean froze, his heart all but stopping. "What the hell does that mean? Gone?"

John sighed, not meeting his son's eyes. "Mean's he's gone. Developed a hell of an attitude after you left last night. I tossed him out."

Dean didn't understand at first. "Out where?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"Out where? Outside, Dean! Where the hell else would I toss him? Told him to go cool his heels. Come back in the morning."

Dean stood still. The range of emotions that played across his face enough to make John nervous. The older man glanced around for an escape and saw coffee and breakfast waiting on the table. "That breakfast?" He asked, moving around his statue of a son.

Dean turned to follow him, an accusing expression on his face. His eyes made a quick inventory of the room, settling on Sam's laptop on his bed and the younger boy's phone resting atop one of his schoolbooks. "You threw him out? Is that what you're saying?" He asked abruptly, striding over, grabbing Sam's phone and waving it in the air. "What the hell is this?"

John ducked his head, taking a sip of coffee to stall. "Yeah, I … uh … that was a mistake."

Dean was having a hard time breathing. "What did he take with him? Where did he go?"

John sighed again, drawing back a blind and glancing outside as though hoping to see his youngest huddled on the stoop. "Look, I was angry, okay? I put him out of the room with his duffle bag and your sleeping bag, and told him to come back tomorrow."

Dean stared. "In case you haven't noticed, Dad. It's tomorrow. Now where the hell is Sam?"

John was silent a moment, then confessed. "I don't know."

"You don't know." Dean echoed, his voice an accusation.

"No, I don't, Dean. I don't know where your brother went. He copped a shit attitude, and I brought him down a peg. That's all there was to it. No great mystery there. Your brother has more attitude than brains these days. I know you know that."

"I don't know anything of the kind." Dean answered, feeling a sudden burst of hatred toward his father for talking about Sam like that. He turned, feeling sick, and nearly tripped over his own duffle lying discarded by the bed. He grabbed it by the handles and made to toss it onto the chair when the dark stain on the carpet next to it caught his attention.

"Dad?"

"What?"

"Why is there a bloodstain on the carpet?"

John's heart skipped a beat. Shit. But he shrugged anyway, trying to play it off. "Who knows? Probably been there since the day they opened." He took another long drag on his coffee. "Thanks for the coffee, by the way." The older man really wanted to investigate what was inside the Denny's bag, but he was afraid he needed to see where this was heading first.

But Dean wasn't fooled. He knelt down and pressed a finger hard against the stain. When it came up tinged with red, he felt his anger pique. He whirled.

"You hit him, didn't you? So help me, Dad. If you …"

But John was on his feet then. "If I what? If I slapped a little sense back into your mouthy brother? So what if I did? He needed it, Dean. I won't have a son who disrespects me." John stared Dean down, silently daring him to continue.

Dean returned the stare, hatred brewing behind green eyes. "You hit him."

"Yes. I hit him."

"How bad?"

John looked away, walking back to the window. "I … think I might have broken his nose." He fumbled with the lid on the coffee, unable to meet Dean's eyes.

Dean died a little inside. Sammy. Out in the cold with a broken nose. Dean had fractured his nose once, and he remembered how agonizing it was. If Sam hadn't been there to help him through it …

"So you didn't slap him. You fucking punched him."

"I guess."

"Why?" Dean was too angry to face his father. Instead, he moved around the room, finding everything of Sam's and tossing it into his own duffle. "What did he say? Do?"

"You don't need the play-by-play, Dean. Just … just go and find your brother." John began to feel a niggle of remorse.

Dean halted, Sam's laptop in hand. "Oh, you're wrong about that, Dad. I do get the play-by-play. I want to know exactly what Sam did that warranted a fucking broken nose."

John's voice was dangerous. "You calling me a liar, Dean?"

But Dean was too far gone to care. "I'm saying I want to know what he said. Why'd you hit him?" Dean stared him down.

John held his son's eyes for long moment before relenting. "I told him to clean the weapons. He gave me grief."

Dean nodded, "Because he had that advanced placement test today."

John was surprised that Dean knew that. Last night had been the first he'd heard of it. He thought anyway. "I gave him an order and he refused. Why don't matter."

Dean stared. "It matters to Sam. He flunks that test, he's stuck in the wrong classes all semester. Didn't he tell you?"

"He told me. Right before he said I sucked."

Dean shook his head. "So he walked out without his phone?"

"He didn't walk out. I tossed him out."

Dean froze again. "You mean, literally? As in, physically pushed him?" A slow burn was starting somewhere down in the vicinity of Dean's gut.

"As in I opened the damned door and shoved the kid out!" John replied, moving to pack up his own belongings, coffee and breakfast forgotten. This was going to turn out just as badly as he'd feared.

"But he landed on his feet, at least?"

"He did. After he bounced once or twice." John replied flippantly, shoving his journal into a front pocket of this duffle.

And at those words, Dean was done. John felt strong arms spin him around, and suddenly his oldest son had him pinned against one wall, an unyielding arm at his throat. John didn't recognize the enraged man looking back at him through Dean's eyes.

"Now you listen to me, Dad. I want to know exactly how bad Sam was hurt when he left this fucking room."

"You sure you want to do this, son?" John growled, the promise of death in his voice.

"Why? You gonna punch me too?" Dean snarled back, releasing him. "Just tell me, dammit."

John glared. "A broken nose. Maybe a … a concussion."

Dean's eyes widened. A concussion. Sam could be in serious trouble. He shook his head, not trusting himself to look at his father. "You see which way he went?"

"No."

"No, of course you didn't." Dean muttered.

"Got something to say to me, Dean. Say it."

Dean looked up then, glaring. He was tempted to tell his father what he really thought of a man who'd treat his 15-year-old brother so cruelly - he'd nearly killed men for less, and so had John. But something kept Dean from burning that bridge. He stayed silent, taking a final glance around the room.

Nothing of his or Sam's remained. Dean strode to the door. "He comes back. Call me." He said, leaving.


	6. The Unexpected Kindness of Strangers

Sam woke to the sound of voices outside the shelter. He shot up out of his sleeping bag, and hastily began packing his things. Before he could finish, a face popped in the open doorway, smiling.

"Someone's here, Dad." the voice said, gazing at Sam. "'Lo. How you doin'? Nice morning out here." the kid grinned.

Sam looked up and found himself smiling at the boy's friendly greeting. "Good morning." He said, reserved.

The kid stuck out his hand. "I'm Ty. Nice to meetcha."

Sam hesitated a moment, then wrapped the offered hand in his own. "Sam."

Ty nodded. "Dad's out here too. He's Carl."

By this time, Sam was packed up and on his feet. He stepped out of the shelter into the bright light of day, and both travelers whistled, catching him off-guard.

"You meet up with some trouble, son?" Carl asked, concerned.

"It's Sam, Dad." Ty enlightened.

"Hunh?" Sam asked.

Ty grinned, uninhibited, "Your face is a wreck, dude. What happened?"

Suddenly, Sam remembered. "Oh! Oh, no. I just … uh … I fell down … you know … back there." He motioned in a vague way back the direction they'd come. "Rolled down a hill and hit a fallen log."

The kid couldn't seem to stop grinning, "Ouch." He said, offering Sam a bottle of water. "You thirsty?"

"No, I'm … I'm good. Thanks."

Carl smiled, looking like he didn't quite believe Sam's story, but he didn't call him out on it. Instead, he sat down on a boulder that bordered the trail and plopped his considerable pack at his feet. "Well, Sam, I have aspirin if you need 'em." He said, rooting around inside and holding up a bottle of painkillers that Sam would have done just about anything for.

Sam nodded before he could help himself, and caught the bottle as Carl tossed it to him. He quickly opened it and shook out two, downing them with his water bottle. He hesitated then, wanting a few for later but not wanting to be rude. He settled for popping the top back on.

"You should take some for later." Ty said, out of the blue. Dad keeps a whole stash of that stuff."

Carl chuckled, "Well, I keep enough." He said. "Go ahead, Sam. In fact, if you need them, just keep them. Ty's right. I have plenty tucked away."

Sam nodded his thanks, relieved at meeting these kind strangers on his first morning alone.

"So, you thru-hiking?" Ty asked, settling down beside his father and pulling his own pack into his lap. He rummaged inside and came up with a box of granola bars and several chocolate bars, and Sam both felt and heard his own stomach growl.

"Uh, I don't know, yet." He answered, unsure what the boy was asking him.

The two obviously seasoned hikers exchanged a strange look as Ty asked the obvious. "How can you not know if you're thru-hiking?"

"Ty." Carl admonished. "Don't be rude, son."

Ty shook his head, tearing into a granola bar with relish. "Sorry. Didn't mean to be."

"It's okay." Sam smiled. "I mean, I guess I am. I don't know. I just … just sort of found the trail last night." he said, recognizing that he must have stumbled onto the Appalachian Trail. Then he continued, not sure what possessed him. "Got into an argument with my dad, and he sort of put me out of the … the house."

"That sucks." Ty said, frowning. He glanced at his own dad. "You mean he just told you to go and not come back?"

"Something like that." Sam admitted.

Carl paused in sorting through his bag and looked up, worried. "You want us to call someone for you? You got someone who can come get you?"

Sam shook his head, "My brother's probably already looking." he answered, smiling to himself. "I'll … uh … meet up with him soon enough."

Carl held up his phone. "You wanna call him?"

And Sam was so tempted. But then he realized how close he still was to the motel and realized he didn't want to risk ending up back with his father, and he declined. "S'okay. I got a phone. I'll call him in a bit." He lied as he sat shivering in the early morning cold.

Carl saw and stopped what he was doing altogether. "You have a jacket, son?"

Sam nodded, pulling his old canvas windbreaker out of his duffle. He tried to ignore the way Ty and Carl glanced at his old, battered bag as he pulled the worn jacket on over his shoulders.

"How you gonna carry that and climb at the same time?" Ty asked, with the usual curiosity of a 13-year-old.

Sam shrugged, again, not sure what the boy was asking. "Just am."

"We're section hikers, Sam." Carl spoke up, smiling. "We got on the trail a ways back, and we'll hike ten or twelve miles and then we'll call and have someone waiting to pick us up near Frederick. We'll sleep in nice, warm beds at home tonight." He was pulling everything out of his pack and meticulously cataloging it on the ground. Sam saw plastic storage bags filled with maps, matches, flashlights and batteries. Carl had extra socks, a change of clothes and quite an assortment of fruit and nut trail mixes, granola bars and chocolate. Once he had everything on the ground, he upended his pack and shook it. When nothing else fell out, he tossed it to Sam. "Here." He said, grinning. "Trade ya."

Sam caught the bag, stunned. He turned it in his hands, disbelieving. He didn't know much about hiking gear, but he knew enough to know this was an expensive pack. It had the removable hipbelt and the hydration bladder, and it had an embroidered logo on the front of a company Sam knew made high-end gear. He stared up at Carl in amazement.

"I … I can't take this." He stammered, unsure if the man meant for him to keep it. But Carl just smiled. "Sure you can. I was going to order a new one anyway. Had that one for a few years now. If you'll trade me even up for your gym bag there, I'll have a way to pack my supplies."

"You … you want this?" Sam asked, gazing down at the old duffle that he'd carried since he was 8 years old. It was an ugly olive green that Sam had once cared enough about to stitch badges onto. He'd gone through a short-lived phase when he was eleven where he'd made Dean take him to Boy Scouts. They'd actually spent a whole year in the same town, and Sam had collected seven different badges before Dad had dragged them out in the middle of the night to move on. He could never afford a sash, so Sam had meticulously stitched the badges for dog care, cooking, camping, hiking and more onto the bag along the length of the zipper. It was the best part of the beat-up bag that had handles so frayed he carried it clutched to his side instead of by the straps.

Carl nodded. "If it has sentimental value, Sam, I can mail it back to you."

"Oh, no … it's not that … it's just … it's a piece of crap is all. Yours is … I mean … it looks expensive." Sam finished lamely.

"Nah," Carl disagreed. "I like a bag with character. That one belonged to a friend of mine who had an accident. He couldn't hike anymore, so I inherited it. But, like I said, I was going to order a new one soon anyway. In the meantime, Your bag there will do."

Sam wavered, feeling guilty. He knew it wasn't a fair trade, but he reached down and zipped his bag open, removing his embarrassingly few belongings. He felt two sets of eyes on him as he pulled out his water bottle and sheathed knife. The only other things in the bag were one extra shirt and a pair of holey jeans. Dean had taken most of his clothes to wash them, and Sam's books were still back at the motel.

He shook his bag out and tossed it over to Carl, who caught it with a smile. As the older man repacked it with his own gear, he resorted his supplies into two piles. When he was done, He gathered up one pile and dropped it at Sam's feet. "You'll need more than water and a knife out here, son." He said, knowingly.

Sam glanced down to see that Carl had shared nearly all of his food, half of his matches, a flashlight, extra batteries, and even two pair of socks. Then the older man turned to his son who was just about Sam's size, and questioned, "Gonna warm up out here today, Ty. Think you'll need that quilted flannel shirt that Aunt May gave you?"

Ty's face lit up like a beacon. "I hate that shirt." He told Sam, delightedly. "It's itchy, and Dad makes me bring it every trip." He reached inside his pack and pulled out a thermal-lined flannel shirt, tossing it to Sam. "Now YOU can itch all night long." He grinned.


	7. Clue

Dean stood outside the motel in the cold light of morning, all his good feelings of earlier blown away by the realization that Sammy was missing.

Sammy. Missing.

And hurt. Maybe badly.

Dean grimaced. Dammit. He should have never stayed out all night like that. Why hadn't Sam told him what was going on? He'd never keep that to himself. There could only be one explanation - by the time Dean texted him, Sam was already gone.

Wait. Hold up.

Sam had answered him though. Had the shit gone down afterward?

He pulled his brother's phone from his pocket and pulled up his texts.

Deleted, apparently.

Dean knew then. Sam was long gone before Dean had tried to reach him, and Dad … Dad must have …

"Shit, Sam." Dean muttered. "That sonofabitch played me."

He shook his head, moving to the Impala and popping the trunk. He dropped his duffle next to the garbage bag full of clean clothes and swore again when he realized Sam didn't even have clean clothes with him.

"Everything okay?" a voice asked from the sidewalk.

Dean looked up, seeing a woman of about 40 standing on the walkway in front of their motel room. He frowned, confused. "Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?"

She hesitated, her hand going to the hair of the little girl who stood in front of her. They both carried bags, and it looked as though they were checking out. "Well … I just …"

Dean closed the trunk, waiting.

She shrugged, "I don't know. I was worried about the other boy - the one with the dark hair. Is … is he okay this morning?" She smiled nervously. "I'm sorry if it's none of my business. It's just a mom thing. I mean … he was crying and all."

Dean's heart plummeted. "That was my brother. He's missing. What did you see?" He asked, coming closer.

The woman's hand went to her mouth as she gasped. "Oh no! I'm sorry … I … I wanted to help him." She looked as though she was about to cry.

"It's okay. If you can just tell me what you saw, what happened last night … I need to find him."

She nodded, making an effort to calm herself. "I heard the shouting, you know? Through the walls? And when I heard the door open, I looked out. I saw the boy rolling across the parking lot."

Dean gritted his teeth.

He … he stood up and faced the other man, his father, I think?"

Dean nodded.

"And he was crying and holding his forehead and apologizing. Said something about cleaning. I think … I think maybe he'd refused to do his chores or something."

Dean stiffened, "He apologized?"

She nodded, "He did. Several times. He pleaded with his father to let him back in. But …"

Dean waited, "What?"

"Well, the man just threw a gym bag at him. Hit him right in the face. I called the police then. I mean, nobody deserves that kind of treatment."

Dean's eyes widened. The police. Oh shit. Social Services. He stepped closer, suddenly frantic. "Did they take him? Did the police take Sam?"

She shook her head. "No, he was gone by the time they finally showed up. I talked to them, and I think they knocked on your door, but no one answered."

"But you're sure? You saw him leave on his own?"

"Yes. I stepped out and asked him to come inside. I have some training, you know, in first aid. The boy was a mess. But he just smiled this sad smile and said he was okay. He walked off into the woods over there." She pointed.

Dean looked. "Did the police search the woods?"

She shook her head sadly. "No. They just .. they sort of blew it off when no one answered the door."

"You said you have training in first aid? Did Sam look … I mean … you think he's okay this morning?"

She bit her lip. "I honestly don't know. There was so much blood on his face. I couldn't really tell where it was coming from. I think … I think he had a cut on his forehead and that his nose was bleeding, but I'm not positive."

Dean struggled to lock down his emotions with that statement, but he could tell from the woman's reaction that his face must have betrayed him.

"Look," She said, stepping forward and placing a hand on his shoulder. "My husband is inside. Let me get him to come out and help you. You're going to search the woods aren't you?"

He stood staring at the thick expanse of trees that backed the motel. How would he ever find Sam in that mess? He sighed, deciding. "Uh, I'm not sure yet. If I do, maybe I'll come back?"

She nodded in sympathy. "Sure. Checkout is 11:00 am. If you need help, we'll be here til then, okay?"

Dean nodded.

"I can call 911 again?" She offered.

"No!" Dean was quick to answer. "That's okay. Sammy, he's … he's sort of my responsibility, you know? I'll find him."

She looked reluctant to let it go. "Well, okay. But remember. We can help. Your brother - he helped my little girl yesterday. Rowan just stepped out to get her bear out of the car, and a bee stung her. She's not allergic or anything, but you know kids." She smiled, rubbing her daughter's hair indulgently. "Rowan thought she was dying. Your brother, he scooped her up and brought her to the door, bear and all." The woman smiled. "He's a nice boy, your brother."

Dean smiled then, not surprised that his brother's big, goofy heart hadn't gone unnoticed. Too bad his dad couldn't see it. "He is. Thanks for trying to … you know … help."

She nodded, "Sure. I hope you find him right away." She nudged the little girl onward toward their vehicle. "We'll just be loading up if you need us."

Dean nodded, turning away. His eyes fell again on the thick canopy of trees, and he shuddered.

Sammy hated camping.


	8. Bucket List

John sat at the table, rummaging in the bag Dean had left behind and eavesdropping on the conversation outside.

Damned motel walls made of paper.

Sam had apologized?

Why didn't he remember that part?

He reached in and lifted out the tray of bacon, eggs and pancakes that was obviously Dean's. Next came his own breakfast - biscuits and sausage gravy with a side of hashbrowns. Curiously, there were two more trays left inside the bag. He peeked in and nodded at the broccoli skillet mess that was obviously Sam's, lifting it out and peering beneath.

Oh.

That chicken-cranberry salad thing.

Sam loved that.

John sighed. Dean had bought Sammy both breakfast and lunch. Probably trying to fatten the kid up. Sam always did take after his mother.

John thought that was why it was so hard to look at him sometimes.

And that mouth! That was Mary's too.

Oh, his wife had owned a temper - never one to let him get away with anything. That was one of the things he'd loved most about her.

But on Sam, it was more heat-of-the-moment.

Still self-righteous though.

And less endearing.

John snorted, thinking to himself - much less endearing.

That mouth of Sam's would stand him in good stead someday when he was a grown hunter if it didn't get him killed first.

Yes, his youngest son would be one hell of a good hunter one day.

Maybe that's why it hurt so badly to realize that Sam didn't want any part of it.

John popped the top on his cold breakfast and scooted it into the microwave.

Breakfast first, then regret.

###

Carl glanced over at his son. For just thirteen, Ty was scrappier than most. Carl was proud of the outgoing, happy and well-adjusted son he'd helped to raise. The boy was smart, athletic, and never any problem. Carl had heard all the horror stories from his friends who'd raised teens - the talking back, the drugs, the drinking … Ty hadn't put them through any of that - at least not yet. And as the pair headed back down the trail in the direction that Sam had come, he took a moment to study his son and to thank his lucky stars that he'd gotten off so easily.

Things could just have likely gone the other way, and Ty could be estranged from Carl just like Sam and his dad were. It broke the older man's heart to even think about putting a child out of the house like that, but he'd known parents who'd done it.

And somehow, his heart was always with the kid.

Who didn't make mistakes when they were teens? Turning your back on the person you'd helped bring into this world? That was just wrong.

It had been hard enough leaving Sam behind, and he didn't even know the kid. There was just something about him that made him seem vulnerable. Carl worried for his safety out here alone. The kid obviously wasn't a seasoned hiker, and he'd offered to let Sam tag along with them to Frederick, but the boy had smiled politely and declined. He'd thanked them more than once for the shirt and supplies, and then he'd headed off north. Carl had warned him about New England in winter, but the boy seemed determined to head upstate instead of down.

So they'd shaken hands all around, and Carl and Ty had watched Sam walk off into the woods, Carl saying a silent prayer for him as they watched him go.

###

Dean had no idea how long it would take him to find Sam in those woods. The kid had a nice head start, and if Dean knew anything at all, he knew Sam was pissed - pissed and hurt. And anytime Sam got pissed and hurt, he channeled the feelings into pure energy. Dean had no doubt now that Sam had taken off on his own - probably with visions of freedom dancing around inside his geek brain. He was fast and strong and had a shit-ton of resilience, and heading off after him on foot in those woods was the last thing Dean wanted to do.

"Why couldn't he just stick to the highway like a normal runaway?" Dean muttered, popping the trunk again and trying to decide what to do.

But his thoughts were interrupted by two twenty-something girls in shorts. They both wore packs on their backs and had faces smudged with dirt and sweat. They were coming from the restaurant and heading off into the woods where Sam had disappeared, and he hailed them. When they turned, friendly and smiling, he asked, gesturing toward the trees.

"What's in there?"

"The AT." the dark-haired girl answered immediately. And when Dean looked confused, the redhead elaborated. "The Appalachian Trail."

"Oh." Dean said, nodding his thanks as they moved away.

"The Appalachian Trail." he repeated to himself.

Friggin' perfect.

###

If he had to admit it, Sam was a little thrilled to be hiking on the Appalachian Trail. THE Appalachian Trail. He'd done a report on it last fall for school and had put it on his bucket list of things to do before he died.

It was an oral report, and he'd made Dean listen to it probably 50 times until he'd gotten it just where he wanted it.

His older brother now knew just as much about the AT (Sam tried not to squee) as he did. Dean also knew how excited Sam was to step out onto it someday. The older boy had laughed at him when he'd admitted that he thought it sounded like fun. Sam still remembered the ribbing.

"I'd just as soon go ten rounds with a wood chipper, Sammy." Dean had joked. "We need to get you some new hobbies, geek boy."

Sam snorted, remembering. He'd told Dean that he'd go north on the trail, given the opportunity.

Because New England in fall - that was another check mark on Sam's list.

Yeah, he was that kid.

But he didn't care.

Sam had packed a whole lot of information into that report. He knew that the trail stretched for over 2,000 miles from Maine to Georgia, passed through 14 states along the way, and took roughly 4 to 6 months to thru-hike. Nine people had been murdered along the trail over the years, and the path meandered through all sorts of terrain - mountains, valleys, meadows, creeks, streams, bridges, and more. There were shelters posted along the trail at roughly ten-mile intervals for hikers to hole up during the night or when bad weather hit.

Maybe it was the aspirin or the chocolate bars taking effect, but Sam suddenly felt happy. He was free. The weather was gorgeous. And he was hiking on the Appalachian Trail.

He turned his face to the sun, closing his eyes and smiling. He took a deep breath of clear, mountain air.

It was going to be a good day.


	9. The Plan

As much as he was loathe to face his father again, Dean knew he needed every advantage if he was going to do this thing.

And that included a hearty breakfast.

He sighed as he stepped back into the room.

Dad was seated at the table by the window - just inches from where the woman had told her story. He was eating biscuits and looking ashamed.

Or maybe Dean just imagined that part.

Without speaking, Dean grabbed up his own breakfast and shoved it into the microwave. He took a long pull on his coffee and half-turned when Dad cleared his throat.

"I … uh … I didn't remember the part where he apologized."

Dean stiffened. So he'd heard every word. "How about the part where he was crying and begging you to let him back in the room?" the older boy shot back, taking his meal and sitting down across from his father.

John paused, his fork halfway to his lips. "No, not that either."

Dean shook his head, eating silently.

"So … where'd he go?"

"Woods."

"Woods? Really? Sammy hates the woods."

"It's Sam."

John sighed. "Look Dean, I'm sorry. I made a mistake, okay? Someday when you're the parent of a teenager with more attitude than brains, you'll get it. Trust me."

Dean glared over his coffee.

"We'll find him." John sighed. "We always do." He glanced at his watch. "I wanted to head north today. Got a hunt brewing up in New York. I guess that's out of the question now."

Dean's head was down, but that didn't stop him from rolling his eyes. He shook his head. "Go. I got this."

John remained silent, thinking.

Dean looked up, relenting. "Really. You can go. Sam's on the Appalachian Trail. He'll head north. Be nice if we had someone to pick us up when I catch up to him."

John's eyes widened. "The Appalachian Trail? Isn't that the one …?"

"The one that Sam did his report on last year? Yeah."

John whistled. "Well hell, the kid's probably having the time of his life."

Dean froze, shooting daggers at his father. "Because a broken nose is always tons of fun."

John had the grace to wince at that, but he remained silent, finishing up his meal and tossing the container into the room's small garbage can.

"So you're going after him on foot?"

Dean shrugged. "Don't see much other way."

John stood, glancing around the room. "Take my pack. It's a shoulder pack. I'll take your duffle. You'll need your hands free." He upended the ancient backpack, dumping its contents across the bed. "You'll need supplies too - enough for you and Sam." He met his son's eyes. "Clothes out in the trunk?"

Dean nodded.

"I'll be back." John said curtly, pulling on his jacket and slipping outside. And Dean was surprised to hear the Impala roar to life and pull away.

He stood and moved to the window, watching as his father drove across the street and parked in the lot of the supercenter next door. Then he shook his head and cleaned up the remnants of his meal. He paused over the two untouched containers, running a hand gently over the tops.

Sam was probably starving right about now. An unwanted image of that skinny kid at the truck stop flitted across his mind again.

Could have been Sam.

Looked enough like him.

Probably that kid had a family who was out looking for him too.

Dean gritted his teeth. So help him, if anyone ever tried something like that with his kid brother …" Dean pictured Sam's easy smile and his eyes that expressed every emotion whether the kid wanted them to or not, and he felt fear pool in his gut.

All it took was one crazy bastard to see the potential there.

Sam had been raised tough, but he was still just a kid.

And he had that handicap of always wanting to help anyone in trouble.

That alone could get a guy killed or worse.

And he was out there with no phone, no money and who knew what for weapons. Dean thought he at least had his knife because he'd done a room recon searching for it and came up empty.

So there was that, at least.

But the kid was injured.

Dean's eyes welled.

Dammit.

"I'm coming, Sammy. Just hang in there, you little bitch." he muttered, heading to the small, cramped bathroom and closing the door. He started the shower running and stepped in. Whatever Dad was up to, Dean wanted to be ready to go when the older man returned.

Time could mean everything.


	10. That's My Brother's Bag

Dean shifted the backpack further up his arms and sighed. His feet hurt.

All damned ready.

For a nationally recognized trail, this path he'd followed into the woods was pretty damned rustic. He'd fallen twice, taken down by the rocks and boulders that littered every freaking foot of the thing. He'd only been out here for about an hour, and still, he felt like he'd dug up three graves by hand.

"Dammit, Dad." he cursed to himself as he tried to simultaneously keep his eyes on the ground and on the nearby trees so as not to miss the splashes of white paint that marked the trail. He'd found out once the hard way about not paying attention when he'd followed what evidently was a deer path instead. It was only by accident that he'd heard people talking off to the left of him and had wandered back onto the trail. Now he was nursing one hell of a headache from his eyes changing focus constantly between the ground and the trees, and he stopped suddenly beside a large fallen log and sat down to dig some painkillers out of his bag. As he rummaged, he heard voices off in the distance coming toward him.

A man chuckled, followed by a kid's voice egging him on. "Come on, Dad. You know you want to."

"Not by any sense of the word "want" do I want to, Ty."

"Aw, you're missing out then."

Dean could see them now - father and son he guessed. They were smiling like everything was right in the world, and for a moment, Dean felt lonely.

He couldn't begin to imagine having a relationship like that with John Winchester.

But the kid spotted him then, and his face broke into a grin. He put an extra charge in his step and hurried forward, stopping directly in front of the older Winchester.

"I'm Ty." He piped up happily, reminding Dean for all the world of a younger, more outgoing version of Sam. Dean smiled despite the pissed-off gorilla that was bashing around inside the walls of his head.

"Dean."

Ty grinned impossibly bigger, dropping his bag practically at Dean's feet and settling down on the ground with a whump. He motioned in the direction of the approaching older man. "That's Dad. He's Carl." The boy wrestled a water bottle off the side of his pack and took a long swallow. He capped it back and turned toward the man.

"Hey Dad. This is Dean." Then the boy was up again and over the log. He crouched down on his haunches, searching the ground with a trained eye. Dean looked up to see the older man smile his son's smile as he nodded at Dean. "Nice to meet you."

Dean nodded, returning to his task at hand, and then the boy's father dropped his bag on the log beside Dean and moved to join his son. Dean tuned out as soon as he heard the boy say something about oyster mushrooms.

Plant collectors, Dean thought, tossing back two pills and chasing them with water. Then, on the down swing, his left hand brushed against the man's bag, and Dean froze.

Army green, battered, broken zipper.

And Dean would know those badges anywhere. Hell, he remembered helping Sam take care of the neighbor's dogs off and on for weeks to earn that freaking dog care badge. He felt his mouth dry up at the exact moment his heart leaped painfully within his chest. He stood slowly and turned around to face the two strangers who, for whatever reason, were carrying his missing brother's bag.

"Where's my brother?" He asked, his voice deadly, hand reaching around behind for the weapon he always kept tucked in his waistband.

Carl glanced up, smile falling away as he took in the look on Dean's face. The older man's eyes dropped to Dean's arm that was hidden behind him, and he took a half-step to the right, placing himself between his son and the man with death in his eyes. "Hold up, there, son." He began.

But Dean cut him off. "You have his bag. Tell me where he is, or I'll make you tell me." He pulled the .45 from his jeans and held it loosely by his side. Ty, sensing the sudden tension in his father, stood up and followed his line of sight to Dean. The boy's face paled.

"You're talking about Sam, right?"

Dean swallowed hard, not liking the sound his brother's name made rolling off this man's tongue. "So he told you his name. What'd you do to him? And you better hope he's okay, cause if he ain't …"

Carl put his hands out in front of him in a gesture of surrender. "Sam's fine. Or at least he was the last time we saw him. I just traded bags with him. That's all."

Dean's hand twitched at his side. "Why?"

Ty piped up then. "You gotta have your hands free out here. Otherwise you'll face-plant. Dad just traded him his old backpack. You know, so it would be easier for him. He said he didn't know if he was thru-hiking or not."

Dean stood silent, vaguely remembering his dad say something along those same lines.

"Dean. Your name is Dean. He said you were probably already looking for him." Carl added. Then he hesitated before continuing. "He's a little beaten up, your brother."

Dean's vision narrowed. "What?"

"Sam. He's … his face. Well, first he said he fell on the trail, then later he said he'd had a fight with his old man."

"Dad gave him a bottle of aspirin." Ty added. "And some food and stuff. I gave him that old thermal shirt that Aunt Mae gave me. It's itchy."

Dean stared, beginning to feel a bit foolish. "You gave him stuff?"

Carl nodded. "I swear, Dean. We just wanted to help your brother. Nothing more."

Dean stood silent, thinking. Slowly, he tucked the gun back in his waistband and nodded at the bag. "I'll need that back."

Carl breathed a sigh of relief, nodding. "Of course." He stepped back across the log and tugged the bag open.

After a moment, Dean did the same. "Here." He said. "You can take this one, it's my dad's." He began pulling snack bars and clothing from the bag.

Carl nodded. "I offered to send it back to him if it had sentimental value."

Dean paused then nodded. "It does." He upended John's backpack and handed it to the older man, grasping Sam's old Army bag in return. He hesitated as Carl began transferring his supplies.

"So … how far ahead of me is he?" He asked, feeling sheepish for having pulled a gun on two people who'd only wanted to help.

Ty shrugged. "Long way. A good hour, at least."

Carl shook his head. "He's not moving fast, though. I think his … his injuries are slowing him down a bit."

Dean looked up, anger flashing in his eyes. "How bad is it?" He felt his hands shake at the sudden mental image he had of Sam alone and injured out here in the elements.

Carl saw and his face softened. "I don't think it's anything that's going to kill him, but I'm sure he's hurting."

Dean froze, nodding, and swore silently to himself.

Ty spoke up hesitantly, "Did … did your dad really do that to him? Hit him in the face like that?"

"Ty …" Carl admonished.

"Sorry." The boy flushed and lowered his head suddenly interested in looking anywhere but at Dean.

Dean shrugged. "I wasn't there. I don't know. I should have been there." He tried to heft Sam's bag onto his shoulder, realizing too late that the strap was broken. How in the hell had the kid made it this long with such a shit bag? It was just one more item to add to the list of things he'd failed Sam on. He should have noticed the kid needed a new duffle. He let the bag settle down onto the fallen log and stood staring at it accusingly.

Ty produced a piece of nylon rope, seemingly out of nowhere, and showed it to Dean. "I can fix it for you temporarily?" He offered.

Dean's eyes narrowed, but he nodded, curious to see what the kid had in mind. He stood watching as Ty threaded the nylon cord through the one good metal ring and tied it off with a series of complicated-looking knots. Ty wrapped the other end around the width of the bag near the end and cinched it tight. When he was done, the cord formed a crude shoulder strap that was long enough for Dean to cross over his body. The older Winchester hefted the bag and smiled. It was a good job. The kid had tied a slip knot in the cinched end, so the longer Dean carried the bag by the strap, the tighter the knot would pull. He slipped the strap over his head and positioned the bag so it hung off his right hip, leaving his hands free. He took a step back and smiled at the kid.

"Let me guess. Scouts?"

Ty grinned. "I'll be an Eagle next year."

Carl stepped behind his son and placed a proud hand on his shoulder. "Ty's got his knots down to a science."

"So I see." Dean nodded. "Uh … thanks."

"Sure." Ty smiled and turned to his dad. "We should get moving, Dad."

Dean stopped them. "And uh … thanks … you know … for Sam."

Carl chuckled, "Don't have to thank us for helping your brother. Anyone would have. He's a nice kid." The older man studied Dean, then reached back into his wallet and tugged out a business card. "You know, if you two ever need a friend …" He handed the card to Dean. "My home, cell and business numbers are on there. I know some people in the family court system. You don't have to … to stay with your father if it gets … bad."

Dean took the card, nodding, knowing he would never make the call. He'd spent his life so far making sure the family courts knew nothing about him and his brother. He sure wasn't about to go begging for help now.

Carl apparently knew it too. "Just a back-up." He said, turning away. "Good luck to you and Sam."

Dean nodded, watching the two stride away down the trail. He chugged a drink of water and turned north.

A good hour, they'd said.

He had some catching up to do.


	11. A Friendly Encounter

Sam sat sideways on the wooden railing of the overlook at Pen Mar Park, his back nestled against the corner post, long legs crossed and stretched out along the top plank. His eyes were closed, and he took deep breaths to take in the smells of autumn all around him. The view from the lookout was calming - miles and miles of rolling farmland bisected by a train track that Sam imagined was invisible during the summer when the trees below him were in full leaf.

It was full-on fall now, however, and Sam had already been privy to two trains as they clattered by unencumbered by potholes or stop signs. Sam had never ridden a train, hadn't even been sure that there still were passenger trains in this age of airplanes and luxury sedans. Seeing the long cars pass by beneath him, faces at the windows, had awakened a longing he hadn't expected. The longer he sat silent, taking in the smells and the sounds of Maryland's pristine farmland, the further he felt himself sinking into tranquility. It was quiet here - too early in the day for the sounds of school children who had just returned to class - his only companions curious squirrels and a friendly shepherd that had galloped over from one of the houses across the street, tail thumping.

Sam wasn't quite sure what to call this feeling that encompassed him. He'd never really had time before to just sit still and notice his surroundings. Sure, he'd always been on the alert for strangers, monsters or the occasional odd noise.

But just to recline and listen to birds rustle in the trees above him and a train as it rolled by below?

Those were luxuries best reserved for the people they saved daily, not for the lowly hunters who served them.

Sam smiled, took another deep breath that smelled like damp earth and wood smoke and felt sleepy.

His revery was interrupted seconds later, however, by the sound of distant crying. He sat up on the railing and glanced around, spotting the two girls as they labored up the last leg of the trail as it bypassed the park. The girls looked to be in their twenties, and one rested heavily on the other, part leaning, part hopping as though unwilling to put weight on her right foot. Sam listened to their conversation as they drew close by and settled down on the picnic table nearest the end.

"Come on, Min. We're here. Now you can rest a bit. Let me see your foot." The uninjured girl tossed both their packs on top of the table and settled down beside her friend, gently pulling the girl's right leg into her own lap.

"Ow! Ow! Ow!" The girl moaned. "Ray, it hurts!"

"What happened?" Sam approached the girls in a manner he hoped was friendly.

The uninjured girl looked up and apparently found him harmless enough to share. "Hornet's nest." She explained. "We got off the trail, and Mindy stepped right in it. Got a lot of stings on her ankle." She pulled the girl's pants leg up and gently tugged her sock down, and the trio were left looking at what appeared to be at least twenty painfully swollen bee stings.

Sam frowned. It looked bad. He studied the girl's face for signs of an allergic reaction, but she seemed to be breathing okay with nothing but her ankle swollen. "Got anything to put on it?" He asked, dropping his bag beside theirs on the table.

Ray shook her head. "We brought stuff for snake bite. Never thought much about bee stings." She said miserably, untying Mindy's boot and pulling it carefully off her foot.

"Ouch!" Mindy sniffled. "Take it easy, Ray."

Sam nodded, dug through his bag and found the aspirin. He shook two out and offered them to the girl. "Here. These aspirin will help. Got a water bottle?"

Mindy took the offered pills gratefully and nodded as Ray dug a water bottle out of the nearest bag and handed it to her.

In the meantime, Sam took his own water bottle and used his foot to brush aside the dead leaves that littered the ground by the pavilion. When he exposed the plain dirt beneath, he dribbled a bit of his water on the ground and used a stick to swirl it into the dirt, creating a thick pasty mud. When he had enough, he gathered it in his hand and settled down on his knees beside the girls. "Here. Mud helps too." He gently dotted the mud over each swollen sting, being careful not to press hard enough to cause the girl additional pain. When he was done, he returned to the mud puddle he'd made and resumed his task as the girls looked on curiously. Once the first application of dotted mud had begun to dry, Sam took his fingers and began gently slathering the whole ankle with mud. He looked up into Mindy's face. "Is it helping any?"

The girl smiled back at him with tear-stained cheeks. "I think so." She sniffed.

Sam sat back, rinsing his hand and returning the smile. "Good. It should help take the pain away and reduce the swelling. You probably should call for someone to come pick you up though, if you can."

Ray sighed. "We can't. We're thru-hiking and hell and gone from home. Nothing to do but charge forward, Min." She said, looking at her friend.

Mindy nodded, reached for a tissue in the front pocket of her pack and wiped her nose. "I know." She said nasally, "I guess this was all my idea to begin with."

A silence descended on the trio at the picnic table, but Ray broke it before it could become awkward. "So where'd you learn all that?" She asked Sam, replacing her friend's foot carefully on the bench and working her way out from under. She stood, unzipping her pack and retrieving her water.

Sam shrugged. "Dad was a Marine."

Ray grinned at him. "You're cute. What's your name? How old are you?"

Sam felt his face pinking up. "Uh, Sam. My name is Sam."

"And?"

"And what?"

Ray flirted, "And how old are you, Sam?"

"Old enough, I guess." He answered, unwilling to let strangers know he was only fifteen."

She nodded, impressed. "Well, Min's not crying anymore, so I guess it's working." She looked down at her friend for confirmation.

Mindy paused, wiggled her toes, and smiled. "It is working! Thanks, Sam!" She grinned. "It hardly hurts at all now."

Sam smiled down at the girl. "Good. If it starts giving you problems again, just do the mud bath over. Do you want some aspirin just in case?"

She shook her head. "I have stuff for … you know … girl problems. It has a pain reliever in it." She teased, giggling when Sam pinked up again. "You're adorable, you know."

"Are you out here all by yourself?" Ray asked, unwrapping a protein bar and tearing off a bite. She talked around the food. "And what the heck happened to your face?"

Sam was silent, contemplating how much he wanted to share with the girls. They seemed nice enough and harmless, but 15 years of Marine training made him reluctant to share too much. He shrugged instead. "Had a fight."

Ray's eyes went huge. "Was it over a girl?"

He shook his head.

Mindy picked up the teasing, "It WAS a girl, wasn't it? Did you have to fight the school quarterback?"

He pulled himself up onto the top of a nearby picnic table and settled down, taking a sip of his own water. "No. No quarterback."

"Well then, who?" Ray continued, settling down beside him and offering him a pack of peanuts.

Sam took the peanuts, nodding his thanks, and made a big deal out of opening them to buy himself some time.

Mindy's eyes danced in his direction. "We want the whole juicy story, Sam. Otherwise, we'll just make one up."

Sam remained silent, crunching.

"Ooh, Mindy!" Ray cried. "That looks like a challenge!" She laughed. "Okay, so here's what I think happened." She leaned forward excitedly. "There's this girl named … Lydia. She's in homeroom and a cheerleader, and you're crazy about her. She likes you too, but there's this villain named … Roger. He's the team's quarterback, and he likes Lydia too. So one day, he cornered you out behind the school and you beat the the crap out of him." She sat back triumphantly. "Did I get it right?" She grinned, finishing off her protein bar and wiping her hands on her pants.

Sam snorted.

Mindy grinned. "That's a yes."

"That's definitely not a 'yes,'" Sam replied.

Ray pouted. "Darn. Was I close? You look like the type a cheerleader would go for - all tall, dark and gorgeous."

Sam turned full-on red at the admission. How could two girls who seemed so smart be so off-base?

"It wasn't the school quarterback." Sam admitted. He'd only been in the school for three days, in fact. He'd had no idea whether they even had a football team.

"A teacher then!" Mindy offered up her own version. "There was this teacher, Mr … MacElroy. And he was hassling your girlfriend after class, trying to get her to go out with him, so you showed him the error of his ways."

Sam smiled, shaking his head.

"Some guy who used to be your best friend?" Ray guessed.

Sam shook his head.

"A stranger on a street corner?" Mindy added.

Sam just smiled.

Ray gave up, exasperated. "Well, who then? Tell us, Sam. Curious minds like ours need to know these things." She dug out her mosquito repellent.

Sam finished his peanuts, crumpled the bag and shoved it in his pack till he got to a trash can. "It was my dad." He said quietly.

Both girls froze at that admission, as Sam feared they would. Mindy swallowed hard and repeated the hateful words back to him. "Your dad did that to your face?"

"Oh, Sam." Ray breathed, distressed. "Really?"

Sam sat still, taking in both their reactions and feeling the sudden need to share his misery with these two girls who seemed so empathetic.

"We've never seen eye-to-eye, you know. It was bound to happen sooner or later."

"So … this was the first time?" Mindy asked, overcome with sympathy for the kind stranger who'd helped her.

"First time he's ever punched me. Yes."

"So there've been other times? Times that he hurt you?" Ray asked.

Sam shrugged, slipped his hands beneath him to hide the shaking.

The girls looked at each other, sadness in their expressions. "Oh, Sam. We're so sorry." Ray offered.

"That truly sucks." Mindy added.

"So … why'd he do it?"

Sam hesitated, still feeling guilty about the things he'd said to his father. "I was being … difficult."

Ray shook her head. "No way, Sam. There's nothing you could have done that warranted THAT." She took him gently by the chin and turned his face to the sunlight. "Is your nose okay? You think it's broken?"

He pulled gently way, embarrassed. "It's not broken."

"How do you know?"

"My brother had a broken nose once. I remember what he said it felt like."

"Did your dad hit your brother too?"

Sam shook his head. "No. He'd never hit Dean. He's … Dean's …"

"What?" Mindy encouraged.

Sam shrugged. "Dean's just the best. He'd never say the things I said. Dean and Dad get along great."

"Well, if he's so wonderful, why didn't he help you then?" Ray wanted to know.

Sam looked away. "He wasn't there when it happened."

"Oh. Well, would he have? Helped you, I mean?"

Sam smiled, picturing his brother's reaction to their father throwing a punch at Sam. "Yes. Dean would have kicked Dad's ass."

Ray clapped her hands together in excitement. "Oh good! I like Dean!"

"I like Dean too.!" Mindy echoed the sentiment, and Sam had to snort.

Even when the jerk wasn't around, he still got all the ladies.


	12. Unearthing Evil

It was quiet in the park as Sam returned from washing up in the restroom. He found Mindy and Ray loitering in the pavilion, the two girls reluctant to take up hiking again while Mindy's foot still ached from the multiple stings. Three o'clock had come and gone, and Sam had been surprised at the absence of school children to this park that offered swings and a merry-go-round, but he supposed the ominous sky and plummeting temperatures were to blame. He studied the two girls in their sweatshirts and shorts and knew they had to be freezing.

"This park has a fire ring." Sam offered. "We could build a fire to warm up a bit, maybe."

"Ooh, Sam. that'd be great." Ray agreed. "We planned to send our summer clothes back and have winter duds waiting at the post office for us farther up the trail. All we brought for this leg of the journey are sweatshirts. I'll help you gather some wood. You be okay, Min?"

The injured girl nodded without speaking, and Sam noted her flushed face. As she sat on the bench in the cooling air, she trembled slightly.

"Hold on." He said, rummaging in his bag and tugging out the lined flannel shirt that Ty had given him. He brought it to Mindy and helped her slip her arms into the too-long sleeves. The shirt was oversized to fit Ty's long frame, and when she pulled it together, it sheltered her drawn-up legs nicely. "Here, this might help until we get the fire going." He explained.

The girl looked up at him in stark admiration and gratitude, and Sam turned away only to find the same expression mirrored in Ray.

"You're the last true gentleman, Sam." Ray smiled, throwing her own arms around him and encompassing him in a hug.

Sam blushed again as her perfume reached his nose and set his senses on fire. He wasn't a fifteen-year-old healthy American boy for nothing, after all.

The two pulled apart and began scouring the ground for fallen twigs and branches to act as kindling. Sam's heart dropped, though, as he surveyed their choices. They had plenty of small stuff to get a fire going, but logs would be required to keep it burning, and Sam saw nothing like that in the small park. His eyes drifted back to the trail, and he felt a flash of guilt. Probably, you weren't supposed to burn logs from the trail like that, but with Mindy injured, he sort of considered it an emergency. He left Ray to collect the kindling in the park, and he headed back into the woods to search for bigger logs to burn.

It was as he was tugging on a nice-sized pine knot that it suddenly came loose, upending a fountain of dirt in the process. Sam heard a clink as the dirt rained down around him, and when it all had settled, he reached for the tarnished dog tags that had been unearthed as a result.

 _Smalley, R. J._

The dog tags were old, similar to his dad's. They had a notch on one end and no rubber gaskets outlining the edges. Sam estimated them to be at least 25 years old, and he smiled.

It was like a small piece of history finding him out here on the trail. When he had time, he'd search up the man's name and serial number and maybe find a way to get the tags back to the soldier's family. In the meantime, he slipped them over his head and picked up the sizable pine knot, heading out of the woods.

He was completely unaware of the gray mist that arose from the disturbed ground and trailed him out of the forest. And had it been daylight, or just a bit brighter under the tree canopy, there was no way Sam could have missed seeing the ancient, mutilated remains of Reuben Jeremiah Smalley that someone had left half buried in the understory.

Sam planned to tell his new companions about his find, but when he arrived back at the fire ring, he saw Mindy sitting on the ground and Ray crouched down in front of her. Even on the wind, he could hear the panic in Ray's voice as she tried to talk to her friend. As he came closer, Ray looked up, tears in her eyes, and cried, "Sam! She's sick or something! I don't know what's wrong!"

Sam dropped his load of wood and kindling and rushed forward. He dropped to his knees in front of Mindy and took in her flushed face, slack mouth and hooded eyes.

"Mindy!" He snapped his fingers in front of her face, but it had no effect. He cupped her face in his hands and whistled. "She's on fire." he shared, as Ray placed a hand flat on the girl's forehead to feel for herself. She shot him a panicked glance.

"It's some kind of reaction from the stings. Has to be."

Sam nodded. "I think so too. I think she needs a hospital, Ray."

Tears rolled down Ray's cheeks. "Sam? How? Where?"

"Stay here. I'll run across the street to that house. See if they'll call an ambulance for us." He shot up and hurried across the park to the house from which the friendly dog had escaped earlier in the day. He knocked feverishly, praying someone would answer.

"Yes?" A middle-aged man came to the door, holding a coffee cup.

"Please, we were hiking on the trail and our friend … a girl got hurt. She needs a hospital. Can you call an ambulance for us? We're over in the park."

The man frowned, concerned and opened the door, motioning Sam inside. "Of course, son. What happened?" He asked, picking up his landline and dialing 911.

"She's having some kind of reaction. She stepped in a hornet's nest."

The man nodded, explaining the situation to the 911 dispatcher who, apparently, asked to speak to Sam. The boy took the phone, voice steady, hands shaking.

"She's early twenties, I think. She's flushed and feverish, and her eyes look funny, and she's not talking to us anymore. She had about twenty bee stings on her ankle."

"It happened a few hours ago. She was fine at first."

"I put a mud poultice on it, and she took two aspirin."

"Pen Mar Park, near the pavilion. Can you tell them to hurry please?"

Sam handed the phone back to the homeowner and thanked him. He headed for the door, and heard the man call out behind him that he'd be right over to help.

Sam didn't wait though. He shot back across the street and could immediately see that Mindy's condition had worsened. She was lying prone now, and her breathing sounded labored. Ray knelt beside her, hysterical.

"Ray!" Sam shook her gently. "Calm down. This isn't helping her."

Ray looked at him uncomprehendingly. "Sam! Her mom's going to kill me! I'm supposed to be watching out for her. She can't die! She just can't! She's my best friend!"

"Nobody is dying here today." Sam explained as calmly as he could. "Help is coming. There's an ambulance on the way. Let's just make her comfortable and get your stuff gathered up so you don't forget anything, okay?"

Ray nodded shakily, eyes closing in relief when the whine of an ambulance became clear off in the distance.

"See? I told you. Help is coming."

The man from the house was suddenly beside them with a soft blanket. "What can I do?" He asked, crouching down and taking in the girl's condition. He spread the blanket carefully over her.

Sam thought fast, "Maybe wait by the road for the ambulance and direct them here?" He asked.

The man nodded. "You got it." He headed back to the road.

Ray busied herself tucking the blanket around her friend while Sam gathered up the three packs, zipped them closed and sat them down in the dirt beside Mindy. Then the paramedics were there and taking charge. They put an oxygen mask on the girl, which quieted her breathing immediately, and upon seeing the multiple bee stings, administered a shop of epinephrine. By the time they were loading Mindy in the ambulance, her face had lost its redness, and she was able to talk just a bit. Ray climbed in behind her, and Sam promised to follow, bringing the packs.

"But Sam, how will you get there?" Ray asked, reaching for Mindy's hand.

"I'll drive him." the homeowner spoke up. "Urgent Care is right around the corner."

Ray nodded as the ambulance doors closed, and Sam stood silent, watching them drive away.

The man put an arm around the boy's slight shoulders. "Come on, son. My truck's right over there."


	13. Dog-Whispering

Dean lounged atop the railing of the overlook at Pen Mar Park feeling more irritated by the minute. In the short hour he'd rested there, two trains had already ratcheted past, blasting shrill whistles into the darkening night. His feet hurt. His back ached, and he needed a cold beer in the worst damned way.

And if that freakin' goofy dog didn't stop licking at his hand, he was going to go off like the last forgotten firework on the Fourth of July.

"Go!" Dean pushed the overly friendly shepherd away. "Go home, you long-nosed, pointy-eared freak. Go lick your master's hand. Better yet, bite the dumb bastard in the ass cheek for not keeping the damned door latched."

But the dog just whined, cocked its head and gave Dean a puzzled stare before settling down on the planks below him with a soft, satisfied whuff.

Dean sighed. Sam was only supposed to have an hour or two head start. How the hell had he not caught up to the kid yet?

Damn, Dean hated nature. He'd had enough of the freaking birds hopping around in the freaking trees already. He'd spent the better part of the day squinting upward to make certain it was only birds rustling around above him and not some ghost or ghoulie. Give him a dark barroom and a loud jukebox any day over this … this … outside crap.

He used the toe of his left boot to kick off his right one, wincing when the leather rubbed against what felt like at least a hundred blisters.

Apparently motorcycle boots weren't the best choice of hiking apparel. Dean allowed both boots to clatter to the decking, leaned back against the corner post and hiked up one knee. He propped up an elbow and used one hand to try and rub away the headache that was rapidly developing.

He supposed the view from here was nice and all, but he'd arrived after dark and found the place deserted. After cleaning up a bit in the bathroom, Dean had made straight for the pavilion, just needing a comfortable place to rest for a minute where the ants and beetles would leave him alone. On the way, he'd stepped in a bizarre puddle of mud that made no sense at all, and it had splashed up over the tip of his suede boot, soaking his toes instantly.

Typical.

He'd rummaged around in his bag and pulled out one of those mulch-like granola bars that Sam loved and he hated. Whatever had possessed Dad to buy those things was beyond Dean. Every time he was forced to eat one, he felt like a cow chewing cud.

Of course Dad couldn't have tossed a box of lunch cakes or one of those little, individually boxed pies into the bag.

Dean's eyes closed.

Pie.

He'd shaken his head and crunched down on the last bite of mulch, washing it down with plain water that he imagined was a hearty dark ale on draft.

It was a good thing Sammy was related by blood. Otherwise Dean would be tempted to just leave the little bitch out here.

He chuckled then.

Naw, he wouldn't.

He could pretend all he wanted, but he knew he'd happily traipse to the end of the world to bring the brat home.

After all, the kid was a huge pain-in-the-ass, but he was Dean's pain-in-the-ass.

That made all the difference.

With a groan, Dean jolted himself back to the present, slipped awkwardly down off the railing and tugged his boots back on. He slung his bag back over his shoulders and limped down off the decking, leaving the dog whining behind him. Dean glanced back once as he stepped back onto the trail, and he had to frown.

The damned dog looked for all the world like it had a message for him.

He shook his head, "Talking to dogs now, Dean?" He chuckled softly. "Yeah, that ain't crazy."

He rounded on the dog a final time and waved. "Good talk." He called, limping toward the treeline.

Ahead of him, a whippoorwill launched into its overbearing and repetitious call, and Dean snorted and shook his head.

Damn, he hated nature.


	14. The Dream

"Thanks, Mrs. Ramsey." Sam smiled at the elderly hospital volunteer as the trio climbed from her car. "You sure didn't have to drive us all the way back out here, but thank you."

The matronly woman pointed her finger in Sam's face. "Now you kids be careful out here. I don't want to read about you in tomorrow's news, you hear?"

"We will, Mrs. Ramsey," Mindy assured her, patting her hand. "We have Sam here to protect us."

The woman shook her head. "Protect you? One good puff of wind would blow this boy over like a falling tree. I can't for the life of me fathom why you kids want to go off alone like this." She bent down to stare up at Sam as he stood beside the passenger door. "You know people have been killed out here. Murdered! Big as you please."

Ray giggled. "We'll be safe, Ma'am. Honest. We're pretty smart."

"Well." The woman harrumphed, "Just get back to your folks in one piece is all."

"We will!" They promised her as she pulled away. The stood as a single unit, watching her leave, then Ray jumped on Sam's back and wrapped her sneakered feet around his slim waist. "Onward!" She ordered, pointing to the edge of the park where the trail disappeared into the woods.

Sam shook his head, smiling. He picked up his pack and toted her small frame across the playground. "Yes Ma'am. I live to serve, Ma'am."

Ray slid down, faking horror. "Did you just Ma'am me, Sam? Don't make me kill you. People have been murdered out here you know." She shook a finger in his face. "MURDERED, I say!"

Mindy giggled. "Geez, Ray. You should just like her. What are you, eighty?"

Ray turned her finger on her friend, "Murdered! A good puff of wind blew them straight away!"

Sam snorted at that, which, in turn, set Mindy to chuckling. Then Ray joined them until all three were nearly helpless with laughter.

Ray hopped up on Sam's back again, covering his eyes this time. "You can't see this, Sam." She advised. "You're too young. There could be corpses in those woods." She slid down again.

"Corpses in the copse?" Sam teased.

"Corpses in the copse!" Ray repeated, and ran into the woods.

###

Three hours later, Sam felt a weird sort of fatigue settling in. He blamed it on his injuries and on the day he'd spent in Urgent Care with the girls. Who knew what kind of germs were floating around waiting rooms these days?

Even more disconcerting, however, was the … the rage? Sam shook his head, glancing behind him once to check on the girls.

This anger was new to him. Sure, he'd gotten angry enough at Dad to call him out and to call him names, but this felt … different.

Sam's hand slipped down to pat at the silver knife he wore on his belt. There was no mystery there; he'd used the thing more times than he could count to take out vampires and werewolves. He'd sliced his brother with it once and Bobby too - back when there was a chance they both might not have been what they seemed.

And always, without fail, he'd hated the feeling. Sinking a blade into flesh - even inhuman flesh - never felt right to him because deep down inside, didn't he believe that all living things deserved the opportunity to thrive?

He snorted, imagining his dad's reaction should he ever let that thought escape into the light of day.

Yeah, that would … yeah … no. Sam chuckled to himself.

But the weird thing was … ever since this morning, he actually WANTED to find an opportunity to use his knife. All the while he'd been walking, he'd been on the lookout for something to … kill.

Suddenly, the idea of thrusting his knife into warm flesh was exhilarating.

And it scared the hell out of him.

Sam's hand went to his forehead, and he rubbed the spot absently. He shimmied out of his pack and let it drop onto the leaf litter below. Sinking down, he leaned quietly back against the trunk of a crooked jack pine and waited for the girls to catch up. Closing his eyes, he drifted off, hands fiddling absently with the rusted dog tags that still hung loose against his chest.

 _Ray was ahead of him on the trail, her long brown hair swaying silently with each graceful step she took._

 _Sam watched her as she walked. Unaware of his scrutiny, she tripped lightly along, her every step graceful, and Sam tilted his head a bit as she came to a small log crossing the trail. He felt a thrill go through him as she hopped easily up onto and then over the obstruction, landing lightly as a doe._

 _He grunted._

 _Looking down, he saw a knife clutched tightly in his left hand. It was longer than his own and more like a dagger than a survival knife. Sam recognized it as a Gerber Mark II. His dad had one, and when Sam had asked about it once, John had simply frowned and shaken his head._

" _You don't need that." His father had said, not unkindly. "That knife was designed with the killing of humans in mind, Sam. And we don't kill humans. That's why you never see it leave the trunk." John had shrugged. "Just something left over from my old military days, son." He'd offered, slamming the trunk down. The older man had been gloomy and irritable the rest of the day, so Sam had never asked about the knife again. He'd researched it though, when his dad wasn't around, and he knew what it looked like and how it was used. He flexed his grip._

 _Though he'd never held Dad's dagger, this knife felt right in his hand._

 _It felt good._

 _He felt powerful._

 _Sam quickened his step to catch up with the girl in front of him._

" _Dinah," He heard himself say, his hand falling heavily on her slight shoulder._

 _And when she gasped in shock, he spun her around and smiled. His eyes lit up then because the look of fear on her face was perfect._

 _Sam raised his left hand._


	15. The Run-In

Dean sipped his coffee in a corner booth, back to the wall. The diner was old, ancient maybe. But the coffee was hot and strong, and the pancakes were delicious. There wasn't much business this time of day, and that's how he liked it.

Quiet.

Unless it was a barroom, of course.

But this was no barroom. This was just a tiny diner in a tiny Pennsylvania town that didn't appear to have much going for it. Visible from the trail, there was a church, a motel, a gas station and Kristy's Diner. Dean had wandered in starving and found the food to be amazing, and he leaned back and patted his too-full stomach as he eyed the little bitches seated at the end of the counter. They were about Sam's age and just as tall and lanky, but that's where the resemblance ended.

These boys were mean.

They'd already sent one of the servers - a young girl not much older than themselves - to the back, crying, and now they were taking potshots at the older lady who worked the counter. Dean caught her eye and raised his coffee cup for a top off, and she smiled and nodded. But as she cleared the counter with the pot of steaming coffee, one of the boys reached out and jostled her elbow. She cried out when the hot liquid cascaded down over her hand, and Dean decided he'd had enough. Sliding from the booth with a squeak of leather jacket on vinyl seat covers, he headed straight for the two boys, eyes burning. One of the kids caught Dean's movement from the corner of his eye and looked over, catching his expression. His face twisted in alarm, and he grabbed the elbow of the kid beside him. Both boys made for the door, but not before tossing a few parting obscenities at the elder Winchester.

Dean watched them go, chuckling. "That's what I thought, bitches." He called behind them, sliding into a vacated seat at the counter, coffee cup still in hand. He set it down and smiled at the waitress. "Good talk." He snorted, then glanced at her hand. "You okay?"

The older lady chuckled along with him. "I'm fine. Just a little burn that some cold water will cure." She moved to the sink and held her hand under the cold stream. "I'll have you some fresh coffee in just a minute, sweetie. You're not in a hurry, are you?"

Dean smiled, flirting. "Not if you keep callin' me sweetie, darlin'."

The waitress giggled like a sixteen-year-old. "Oh, you. You're a flirt. That's what you are."

Dean winked. "Only to the pretty ladies."

She tittered again, reaching beneath the counter for a new packet of coffee. "Those two." She huffed, shaking her head. "Cousins, and from a good family too. Lived here all their lives, and always had everything handed to 'em. Don't have no idea what it's like to work for a living." She sighed. "Known those two since they was knee-high, and they act like that."

"Well," Dean countered, watching the coffee drip down into the clean pot. "They'll pick on the wrong guy one day, and that'll cure them."

The waitress tipped the aromatic carafe over Dean's cup and smiled, "Well, maybe that's what you just done, sweetie." She patted his hand. "Thanks for that, by the way." She pushed four creamers in his direction. "You ever need a top off, you come see Shirley, you hear?" She winked. "It's on the house."

Dean nodded, raising the cup to his lips. Seeing the boys had made him think of Sam.

Where the hell was he?

Dean had passed through three small Pennsylvania towns already, searching each from top to bottom only to find no sign of a geeky little brother.

It was the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that worried him most. He knew Sam was plenty capable of taking care of himself, but he just couldn't shake the feeling that the kid was in trouble.

He should have caught up to him by now.

Without realizing it, he shivered.

"You okay, sweetie?" Shirley asked, pausing in her wipe-down of the counter.

Dean looked up, jolted back to the present. He shrugged. "Yeah, just worried about someone."

"Oh no." She empathized, "Who?"

Dean smiled, reaching for his wallet and the worn photo of Sam that he'd shown to every waitress he'd encountered in the last two counties. He slipped the creased picture out and slid it toward her. "Sam. My kid brother. He's on the trail somewhere ahead of me, and he's hurt. I should have caught up with him by now."

She took the photo, shooting him a sympathetic look. "Why, he's no older than those two you just chased out of here." She handed the picture back. "He's all alone, you said?"

Dean nodded, tucking the picture safely away.

"You two get split up along the way?"

Dean paused, unsure how much he wanted to share, but the kindly woman sort of put him in mind of a kinder, more gentle version of Bobby, and he found himself sharing more than he normally would have.

"No, he … uh … he got on first. I'm just trying to catch up."

"And he's hurt?" She turned and made her way over to a glass dish that covered a lemon pie heaped tall with meringue. "Bad?" She asked, cutting a double slice.

Dean shrugged, "Maybe. I wasn't there when it happened." His eyes went large as she set the pie in front of him.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I wish I'd seen him, but if he came through here, he didn't stop in. I'd know. I worked a double shift yesterday to cover for Shelly who's out having her baby." She smiled at him. "And I never forget a face."

Dean looked up, questioning.

She handed him a fork. "Now, I know it's not your brother, but if you're anything like me, a good piece of homemade pie will fix you right up."

And Dean discovered that she was right.

###

Sam's face was covered in sweat, his hair sticking in stubborn ribbons to his cheeks. He felt horrible, and apparently, the girls had noticed. They were taking turns walking beside him, and if either asked him one more time if he was sure he was okay, he wouldn't be held responsible for his actions.

Sam just knew he needed some distance from the two innocent woman who walked the trail with him because the thoughts he'd been having for the last eight hours terrified him. It was he who'd suggested they hole up in the next town they came to and get motel rooms for the night. And thankfully, Sam saw his salvation coming up on the right.

The town didn't look like much - just a diner and a gas station and a motel. Sam looked to Heaven and said a small prayer of thanks for the latter. Without preamble, he told the girls he'd see them tomorrow and made a beeline straight for the Rest-Ezy Motel without looking back. He hoped they wouldn't follow him or decide that he was angry with them because he wasn't.

It was himself he couldn't trust at the moment.

He checked himself in using the fake ID Dean had insisted he have. It matched Dad's latest fake credit card, luckily, and that was all the clerk seemed to need. Sam exited the office and made straight for his room - the last one on the end - risking a glance at the glass-fronted diner across the street. Mindy and Ray were seated inside a booth by the window, and they waved hopefully at him as he passed, motioning him to come in, but Sam just waved back and shook his head. He unlocked his door and dropped his pack, heading straight to the shower.

Thirty minutes later, he felt a bit better and decided he was starving. He tugged the blinds apart and peeked over at the diner, but the girls were nowhere in sight. He sighed in relief and glared at the rusted dog tags where they lay innocently on the nightstand. Making a decision, he shoved the hateful things in his pocket, pulled his tee shirt on and headed across the street to Kristy's Diner.

###

When the bell over the door jingled, Shirley stood up from her seat on the stack of boxes outside the back room and shuffled out front.

Damn, her feet were killing her. These 16-hour shifts were going to be the death of her one day, she just knew it.

She moved to the counter and picked up the dishrag that seemed to be an extension of her arm and glanced up to smile at her latest customer.

But her smile froze when she found herself staring into the youthful, if bruised, face from the other boy's photo.

"Sam." She said, her mouth dropping open.

And Sam's expression mirrored her own. He stopped in the doorway, dumbfounded, as the older lady behind the counter slowly grinned at him.

"You're Sam, right?"

Sam cautiously let the door close behind him. "Yeah." He said, head cocked to the side. "Do I know you?"

Shirley slipped out from behind the counter and made her way over. "You surely don't, sweetie, but your brother showed me your picture, and I never forget a face."

Sam's eyes widened, "My brother?" He asked, his heart leaping with hope. If Dean was here … well … if Dean was here, everything would be okay. "You saw my brother?"

She nodded, tickled, "Not more than an hour ago. He was headed for the only motel in town."

Completely forgetting his manners, Sam swung around and ran back across the street to the cheesy motel. He was heading for the office when he heard a commotion around the side of the building. Rounding the corner, he was just in time to see his brother shove a teenager forcefully to the ground.

"Try something like that again, and you might get what you deserve." Dean smirked down at the rattled youth as the kid floundered in the dirt and the gravel. Dean held what looked to be a police officer's baton in his right hand, and it was apparent that he'd taken the weapon away from the kid.

The kid had tried to hurt Dean.

Sam suddenly understood what people meant when they talked about blood boiling. He felt heat rising in his face and in his hands - a white-hot fury unlike anything he'd ever experienced before.

That stupid kid had tried to hurt Dean, tried to hit him with the baton.

Sam's hand went automatically to his knife.

And when the second kid came at Dean from behind, Sam was ready. He rushed forward, his knife deadly in his hand.

Dean felt the kid rear up behind him in the same moment he heard the smooth swish of a knife leaving it's holster. He jerked his head up to see Sam coming at him with death in his eyes.

No, not at him.

At whoever was behind him.

Suddenly Dean pictured the other kid from the diner and instantly knew.

He screamed his brother's name and moved forward to intercept Sam's attack. The two met chest-to-chest and Dean brought his hand down in a chopping motion to rid Sam of his weapon.

But the kid held on, his eyes staring behind his brother, colder than Dean had ever seen them.

"Sammy! Stop it!" He bellowed, suddenly scared that his 15-year-old brother was about to commit cold-blooded murder and he'd be unable to stop it. "They're kids, Sam! Just stupid kids!"

But Sam was growling like something feral and seemed to have superhuman strength. Dean tried again and failed to disarm his brother and suddenly knew what he had to do.

"Sorry, Sammy." He apologized as he drove his forehead into Sam's, driving the kid instantly to the pavement in a howl of pain.

Dean fell down beside him, kicking the knife away and pulling his wounded brother to his chest. He glared up at the two teenagers from the diner.

"Get the hell out of here before I kill you both myself." He snarled, one hand buried in his brother's hair, the other cradling the boy's cheek.

And like rabbits, they ran.


	16. Difficult Confession

Dean cradled Sam's face in both hands, pulling back so he could study him intently. His eyes traveled from Sam's two black eyes to his swollen nose, and he swore.

"Dad really did a number on you, hunh?"

Sam tried to pull away, but Dean resisted. "Uh unh, little brother. Let me look, okay?" Dean tilted Sam's head up and studied his eyes. "Well … you might have had a concussion, but if you did, you're past it now. How do you feel? I mean, other than the headache I probably just gave you?"

"Dean." Sam huffed. "I'm fine. Lemme go." He wrested out of Dean's grasp, falling backward in the process and landing on his butt in the dirt.

Dean snorted. "Always graceful, Sammy."

Sam looked offended. "Shut up, jerk. Why'd you headbutt me anyway?"

Dean looked serious. "Why'd you come at a couple of stupid kids with blood in your eye, hunh?" He glanced around for Sam's knife and retrieved it, wiping it free of dust against his jeans. He handed the weapon back. "I mean, yeah, they were idiots, but come on? A knife?"

Sam glared, "I thought they were gonna kill you, Dean. No need to thank me or anything." He took the knife and stood, sliding it back into its holster.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I ever get offed by some kid carryin' his dad's baton, I deserve it. Come on, Sam. Have you met me?" He raised himself to his feet to stand beside his brother. He slapped Sam on the shoulder. "Let's go, bitch. I got a room and a med kit with your name written all over it."

Sam tried hard to hide his relief at the suggestion, but Dean saw it anyway, and the older boy's eyes narrowed.

You sure you're okay? Cause we can find a hospital if you think you need one."

"Dean." Sam sighed. "I'm fine. Can we just go already?"

Dean stared, unconvinced. "Yeah, sure, Sammy. Let's go."

Dean let Sam lead the way around to the front of the motel, studying the kid as he moved. Sam walked with a kind of nervous energy that Dean had never seen before. The kid's fingers drummed against his thighs when he wasn't using them to talk, and he kept tossing glances behind and to both sides as though looking for someone or something.

Dean shepherded him inside the room as briskly as possible and motioned to the small corner table. "Over there, Sasquatch. Sit down so I can check you over."

Sam let out an exasperated sigh, but Dean wasn't buying it. "Just do it, Sam. And what do you mean, just leaving like that anyway? Why'nt you wait for me when you and Dad went at it?" Dean dug the med kit out of his duffle and moved to sit across from his brother.

Sam snorted, "I didn't exactly leave on my own, Dean. Dad put me out at the end of his boot."

Dean froze, "You mean that figuratively, of course."

Sam shrugged, "Not really."

The look that crossed Dean's face would have frozen lesser men.. "He didn't kick you, right, Sam? Cause if you tell me he kicked you, I'll …"

Sam shook his head. "He didn't kick me, Dean. Can we just drop it?"

The older boy sighed, dabbing at the corner of Sam's nose with gauze soaked in peroxide. He shook his head. "I got Dad's version all ready. I'd like to hear yours."

Sam shrugged again. "What's to hear? Second verse, same as the first."

"Well …" Dean stalled, peeling the back of an adhesive bandage and squinting as he applied it to the corner of his brother's left eye. "For one … why did Dad get mad enough to banish you?"

It was Sam's turn to stall as his face turned pink.

"Sammy? What aren't you telling me?"

"I just … He made me so mad, Dean. Dad NEVER thinks about how I feel or what I need, you know? It's all here, clean this, or there, hunt that. I just … I can't take it anymore. And when he said … well, I mean … when he told me …" Sam's voice trailed off.

Dean waiting, gauze in hand, "What?"

Sam looked away. "I don't know. I think I said something like, 'Screw you.'"

Dean blinked. Then he looked away in an effort to hide the grin that was threatening to break out all over his face. He cleared his throat, looked stoic.

"Well, yeah. That would do it, I suppose." He took a moment to fumble with the supplies in the box. "Damn, Sammy. Why'nt you just pull a gun on the guy? Would have had the same effect."

Sam snorted. "He did sort of look at me like something he scraped off the bottom of his shoe."

Dean remained silent, suddenly very interested in putting the cap back on the antibiotic ointment.

"Anyway, I think Dad is the least of my worries right now."

"Hunh?" Dean's head snapped up, and just like that, his radar was back up and pinging.

Sam glanced at him, guilty. "I … uh … I kind of did something pretty dumb, Dean."

Dean couldn't resist, "You knock up some little hippie chick, little bro? Am I Uncle Dean now?" He grinned at his own cleverness, but the miserable look on his brother's face quickly caused him to sober up. "Come on, Sammy. If you did it, how bad can it be? You're so clean you squeak."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm being serious, jerk."

Dean sighed, snapping the kit closed and sitting back, "Well, what then?"

Sam dug in his pocket and pulled out a chain with dog tags attached. He held them out to Dean. "I found these in the woods."

Dean's eyes narrowed. The things looked ancient. He took the tags and held them close to the light. "R.J. Smalley?"

Sam nodded. "I mean, I thought they were cool. Thought I'd find the guy's family and return them or something."

Dean nodded, handing them back, "Sounds noble. You're right." He joked. "How horrible of you."

Sam stared at Dean's outstretched hand like he didn't want to touch it. Finally, he accepted the necklace back. "Well, here's the thing. I sort of put them on." He bit his lip and risked a glance at his brother.

He found incredulous eyes staring back at him.

"You what?"

"I put them on." Sam repeated miserably, hearing his brother's breathing pick up. He hated it when Dean breathed heavy through his nose like that.

"Oh, and what? Let me guess? Now you're possessed or some shit?" Dean's face was livid. "Of all the stupid … Dammit, Sam! You KNOW better!"

Sam hung his head, trying not to cry. He'd felt so horrible for days, and now hearing how stupid he was from the one person in the world whose opinion mattered to him was almost more than he could bear.

"I know! You think I don't know that? I'm SORRY, okay?"

"Yeah, well … fat lot of good that does us now, right?"

"Listen, you don't have to get involved, okay? I'll … I'll figure it out on my own."

Dean snorted, "Cause being on your own has worked out so good this far."

Sam's eyes flashed. "That's not fair!" He shot up from the table. "I made a mistake is all - a dumb mistake!"

"That you did."

Sam glared. "Just … fine then! I got my own room here. I'll just go figure it out myself." He moved toward the door, and that's when Dean made his preferences known.

"I swear, Sam. You walk away from me again and I'll take you down myself."

Sam stopped at the dead serious tone in his brother's voice. Dean meant it. The younger boy stood in the middle of the seedy motel room, looking like Misery itself would shun him.

Dean took one long look at the kid who was basically his whole life and relented. He sighed. "Listen Sammy, just … just sit down for a minute okay? Let me think. I just need to think." The older boy sank down onto the sagging bed and ran a hand through his hair. He pinched the bridge of his nose and spoke without looking up. "So … what's happening to you? Tell me what's going on?"

Sam tucked both hands in his pockets and sat down in the chair across the room. He hung his head, shrugging, "I'm having these … I guess you'd call them dreams." He glanced up at his brother, tears in his eyes. "They're awful, Dean."

Dean sat up straight at his brother's tone, recognizing that the kid was one more harsh remark away from breaking down completely. He spoke carefully. "Can you tell me about them? Awful how?"

Sam looked away, staring at the wall. "I got on the trail a ways back with two girls."

Dean's mouth dropped open.

Sam saw. "They're nice girls, Dean. Honest. About your age, maybe. But we've been traveling together ever since Mindy got hurt and I helped her."

"Hurt how?"

"When I met them, she'd gotten off the trail and stepped in a nest of hornets. She had a bunch of stings. I showed them how to do a mud poultice."

Dean nodded. "Go on."

"So, Mindy … later on she had an allergic reaction. We had to have a guy call an ambulance and everything, and I went to the hospital with them. We've just been together ever since. They say they're thru-hiking, and so am I. It just made sense to stick together."

Dean nodded, waiting to see how Sam's story was going to end.

"So anyway, I found the dog tags back in the park when I was searching for wood to help keep Mindy warm. We never got to use it because she got sick, but I put the tags on, and … stuff has been happening ever since." Sam raised his eyes to his brother, and Dean could see pure terror there.

"What kind of stuff, Sammy?" He asked gently.

Sam shook his head and two tears spilled over and ran down his face. "I can't … Dean! I don't wanna say it!"

Dean swallowed hard and moved to sit on the edge of the bed across from his kid brother. He put a comforting hand on Sam's knee. "Come on, kiddo. Spill it."

Sam shivered, took a deep breath as though steeling himself. "I … in my dream I was someone else. I think I was this Smalley guy. We were on the trail, and Ray was ahead of me and all I could think about was how …"

Dean waited. "What?"

Sam swiped at his face with his sleeve, like he'd done when he was five, and Dean's heart did a little flip-flop in his chest. "I couldn't think about anything but how she … she moved and stuff."

Dean frowned, thinking he suddenly knew where this was going. His mouth went dry. He nodded without speaking.

Sam continued. "And in this dream, I … I had this knife. It was like that one of Dad's, Dean, you remember it? The Mark II?"

Dean went pale. He did remember it. Dad hated that knife. The thing was more wicked-looking than everything else in their arsenal combined. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, Sammy. I remember it."

"Well, in my dream, I was carrying it down at my side, and I was following Ray through the woods, and it was like … I don't think she knew I was there. I was … watching her walk and stuff and noticing how she … she moved. And it felt … I don't know. It felt weird." Sam looked toward the wall as his face turned pink. "I … it was just this weird feeling, like … in my stomach."

Dean swallowed again, realizing what his kid brother was too bashful to say: He'd been aroused in his dream - aroused by his friend walking ahead of him and … and by having that knife."

This was so not good.

"Go on, Sam." Dean prompted quietly.

Sam's breath hitched, and he took another swipe at his face. He looked Dean in the eye. "In my dream, I think I killed her."

Dean was sure he turned a shade green at that revelation.

"I think … no. I KNOW I killed her. She turned around, and she was so scared, Dean!" Sam turned haunted eyes on his brother. "She was so scared, and I … I raised the knife. And I … I LIKED it, Dean!"

And that's when Sam lost it completely. He stumbled up from the chair and shot for the door. And when Dean was able, he found the boy just outside, retching into the shrubbery.

Dean sank down to his knees beside the kid, sharing his misery. He patted his back, trying to offer comfort. "It wasn't you, Sam. You can't blame yourself. And anyway, it was just a dream, right?"

 _Please let it be just a dream._ Dean begged inside his head.

Sam nodded, "Yeah." He said, voice wrecked.

"Okay then. Just a dream. No harm; no foul. We just gotta figure out how to get rid of this Smalley guy, and then the dreams will stop, right?"

Sam shook his head. "No. There's more."

Dean's heart sank, but he tried hard not to show it. He nodded and rose, tugging his brother up behind him. "Okay. So tell me the rest." He led the way back inside.

Sam stood at the window, his back to his brother as he talked about the overwhelming urges he'd been feeling since yesterday.

"I want to hurt them, Dean." He confessed quietly, shamefully. "I mean … it's all I can think about. I had to get away! Had to put some space between us. Mindy and Ray - they don't understand. They think I'm mad or sick or something, but I just … I couldn't risk being around them anymore." He swallowed hard. "My hand keeps going to my knife." He turned and looked at his brother, lost. "I'll just be hiking, you know, listening to the girls' banter, and I'm trying real hard to think about Dad or about you or about school - anything to keep me sidetracked - and I'll look down, and …"

"And what, Sam?"

"And my knife is in my hand."

Dean paled.

"And I'm not even holding it right. I'm holding it like a dagger - like I held it in my dream."

Dean had heard enough. He stood, clapping his hands together. He approached his brother, nodding. "Okay. So here's what we do." He said, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder and forcing the kid to look him in the eye. "First, we get you something hot to eat, then we figure it out, okay?" He studied Sam. "We will, Sammy. We'll figure it out, just like we always do."


	17. Between a H'ant and a Hard Place

"There you go, Sammy. That should do it." Dean stood up from his crouch, fragile skeletons of dried leaves crunching beneath his boots. He reached down and snagged the salt box, shoving his lighter down the front pocket of his jeans. He looked over. "Salted and burned, little bro. You should be in the clear."

Sam stared down at the charred remains of the necklace and took his first deep breath in days. He glanced up at Dean and grinned.

Dean snorted, hiding his reservations. The look of relief and happiness on Sam's face was totally worth not voicing his concerns, and the older boy had more than a few.

If the dog tags were the only remains of this R.J guy - if the fire had burned hot enough to completely destroy the metal, which Dean was pretty sure was stainless steel ... and if Sam hadn't all ready been tainted by the guy in some other way - then his brother should be in the clear.

But Dean knew it was rarely that easy.

Still … no need to tell Sam these things unless he had to. Best to just let things be and call it a win.

"So … what now?" Dean asked.

Sam was still grinning sheepishly. "Wanna sleep for a week, Dean."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Come on, Francis. Let's get you back to the motel." He pretended to stare at his brother's face. "Come to think of it, you could use some beauty sleep there, Sammy."

But two hours later, with Sam stretched out on his brother's bed, and Dean sitting outside on the stoop, standing guard under the guise of people-watching, it was apparent that sleep was the last thing the youngest Winchester would enjoy for quite some time to come.

 _He was back in the woods, moving quietly along the trail and taking caution to limit his steps to bare dirt. Ahead of him, Ray crashed, uncaring, through the leaves and the bushes, chattering away to someone on the trail ahead of her._

 _Him._

 _She was talking to him._

 _Sam felt rage bloom deep inside him, and his hand automatically went to his knife. Sam looked down to see if it was his own knife he held or the Mark II, and he saw fatigues over long legs that ended in heavy military-issue boots._

 _Ray laughed then. She laughed, and further down the trail, Sam heard a masculine voice answer. It was a familiar voice, but Sam wasn't swayed. He slipped off the main drag and cut ahead of the duo with the intent of surprising them around the next bend. For some reason, Sam knew every twist and turn of this section of trail. He worked his way around for a full forty minutes before finding his hiding place. He waited, shaded from view as he listened to the man and woman approach. The man was in front; Sam could tell from the direction of his voice. Ray brought up the rear, just as he'd known she would._

 _And when Dean walked innocently past him, unaware, Sam made his move._

" _Jeb." He said, squinting when Dean turned around, an instant smile forming on the other man's face. But when Dean moved forward to pull Sam into a happy embrace, Sam swung the knife upward between them instead._

 _Dean's eyes went wide with shock as the blade punctured vital organs. He shook his head, blood welling in his mouth and running, in a thin line, from both corners._

 _He uttered a single word, "Why?"_

" _Because she's MINE!" Sam growled, watching Dean fold to the forest floor like a used towel. He stared down at the brother who'd taken care of him all his life, stared at the blood-soaked knife still clutched in his hand, and he smiled._

 _And when Ray began screaming behind him, he turned, grinning, and spun her around before she could run away._

" _Dinah," He said, and raised the knife a second time._

"Sam! Stop it!" Dean grunted, refusing to hurt the boy who currently pinned him to the crusty motel carpet. "You hear me? Wake up, man! It's me!"

But Sam, caught in the throes of his nightmare, seemed incapable of hearing his brother's pleas. Instead, his right hand reached for the familiar knife at his belt, finding it gone. Dean saw, and used Sam's sudden confusion to roll them both until Sam's slight figure lay pinned beneath his own. He slapped the kid. Hard.

"Sam! Snap out of it, man!"

But Sam only growled, low and feral. "She's MINE!"

Dean squinted, "Whatever! Just wake the hell up. Sam! Sam!"

And whether it was his brother's desperate plea or the feel of the carpet beneath his boxer-clad legs, Sam suddenly jolted awake. The forest canopy faded to the water-stained ceiling of the Rest-Ezy Motel, and Dean's substantial weight pinned him to the floor.

"Wha … what?"

"Sammy?"

"What? Get off me, Dean!"

But Dean wasn't moving until he was sure Sam was awake and okay. "Sam. Just keep still. Let me check you over, okay?"

Sam slapped his hands against his brother's chest, nearly sobbing. "Get off! Please! Gonna be … gonna be sick."

Dean moved quickly, but not quickly enough. Sam didn't make it to the bathroom before the heaving began and by the time he reached the toilet, he'd left a steady trail of digested dinner in his wake.

But Dean paid no mind. He was beside his brother in a heartbeat, wetting a washcloth and helping to wipe away the vomit and tears from Sam's face, his own heart breaking.

"Sam, it's gonna be okay." Dean assured him, scared at the way Sam had dissolved into hysterical sobs.

But Sam wouldn't be comforted. "No! No, it's not! I … I killed you! I … I killed you Dean! And I k-killed Ray too! What's wrong with me? I want it to stop! Just … please, make it stop!"

###

"There's a way, but you ain't gonna like it, Dean." Bobby informed him reluctantly.

"You think I care? We gotta do something, Bobby, or this Smalley guy is gonna take Sam over completely. I'm at the end of my rope here."

Bobby sighed down the phone line. "I think you're gonna change your mind when you hear the options. I've only been able to find two."

"What are they? At this point, anything would be better. We've been fighting this thing for a week, and it's only getting stronger. I've got the kid tied to the chair, Bobby."

The older man closed his eyes, trying not to imagine what that must be like for both Sam and Dean. He sighed again, opened his book and began skimming the lines of print. "Option one: kill the host."

Dean made a gurgling sound on the other end of the line.

"I told ya, ya ain't gonna like the options."

"Well, what kind of option is that?" Dean squeaked. "Obviously, we ain't doing that."

"Well …"

"Bobby!"

"Now hear me out, Dean. I mean … in a medical setting, with a doctor standing by, and resuscitation equipment, I think it could work."

"What the hell?"

"We take him just past the point of … you know … of where his heart stops beating. Eject Smalley, exorcise the bastard, and bring Sam back."

Dean thought about it for at least two seconds before vetoing the idea. "Not a chance in hell are we doing that. What's the other option?"

Bobby sighed. "I was afraid you was gonna ask that."

"It can't be worse!"

"Depends on your definition of worse. It ain't as risky, but it'll be more … uncomfortable … for your brother."

"More uncomfortable than being dead?"

Bobby hesitated.

"Come on, Bobby. Toss me a bone here?"

The second option involves sensory deprivation coupled with pain stimuli."

Dean felt sick. "What's the third option?"

"I told you, son. Sam's got himself in a bad situation. There ain't no easy way out. I've been researchin' the hell out of this thing for days."

"There has to be another way."

"There ain't. You said you found the body and disposed of it, right?"

"Yeah. Wasn't a lot left to burn, but we made a good job of it."

"And the dog tags too, right?"

"Right."

Bobby sighed again. "Right. That's what I thought. Sam's caught himself a h'ant."

"A what? A Haunt?"

"No, a h'ant. Slippery little son of a bitch that makes its host's life a living hell. You can't force it out. It has to want to leave."

Dean ran a frustrated hand through his hair and moaned.

"I know. I looked up this Smalley guy. Real bad character. They called him the AT Killer. He followed his wife onto the trail and stabbed her eight times, and that ain't all, Dean."

Dean nodded, "His brother?"

Bobby paused. "How'd you know?"

"Sam mentioned something," Dean confessed, leaving out the multiple times his brother had attacked him during the past week. Aside from that first episode when Sam had been dreaming, the kid had tried three more times - once out on the street in broad daylight, wide awake.

"His brother, Jeb Smalley, was hiking on the trail with the wife. This R.J guy was convinced there was something going on between the two of them. He offed the brother first, then the wife. Turned out, they weren't fooling around at all. It was all in the guy's head."

"So how'd he end up buried in the leaves back there on the trail?"

"Buried? Got no idea. After he killed his wife and his brother, he disappeared. They never caught him, obviously."

"So he kills them and then someone kills him?"

"Or he killed himself. It's remote enough that he could have decomposed over the course of a season or two."

"So that's what this thing, this h'ant, wants? It wants to re-enact the whole thing with new players? Kill me? Kill Ray?Then kill Sammy?"

"It's likely."

"Yeah, well it can go screw itself cause that ain't gonna happen."

"Then it sounds like we're going the sensory deprivation route, Dean."

Dean folded onto the nearby bed before his knees failed him. "Bobby … I … we can't. It's still Sammy in there."

The older man paused, heart breaking. "I know that, Dean. You think I don't know that? I ain't happy about this either, you know. I just don't see any other way. The longer this goes on, the stronger the foothold Smalley gets in your brother. We don't stop it, Sam ends up dead or in prison for the rest of his life."

Dean was silent, thinking. "So when you say it has to want to leave …?"

"It found a gold mine when it hooked itself onto Sam. The kid's outgoing, smart, nice-lookin' - the exact recipe to attract a lot of attention. This thing wants attention, Dean. It wants interaction, just like the two girls you said Sam hooked up with right away. The kid draws people to him. This h'ant thrives on that kind of thing. That's why we have to trick it into thinking that clinging onto Sam ain't so much fun anymore."

"And how do we do that?"

"I know a guy in Connecticut."

Dean waited, "And?"

"And he's a scientist. Experiments with sensory deprivation and isolation tanks. Supposedly they help reduce stress and anxiety and help people sleep better at night."

Dean chirked up at that. "Well, that doesn't sound so bad."

"Well, but that's using the isolation tanks. We won't be able to use that on Sam - not unless we want the h'ant feeling all rested and relaxed."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh. We gotta make the thing miserable for a long enough period of time that it actually want to vacate Sam's body."

"Which means making Sammy miserable."

Bobby blinked rapidly to hold back the wetness that was rapidly forming behind his eyes. "I'm sorry, Dean. I am. I just don't see any other way."

"Could we just drug Sam for a few days? That would be boring enough the thing might leave."

"Can't. You drug the kid; you drug the h'ant."

"Okay, so what are we talking here? Blindfold?"

On the other end of the line, Bobby nodded. "I called my friend, explained what was going on. He says headphones that deaden all noise, blindfold, cuffs so the kid can't get out of the chair, and no human contact of any kind."

Dean swallowed back bile. "For how long?"

"For as long as it takes. There ain't much lore on these things. I can't find anything anywhere tells how long they can hang on."

"What about when he has to use the bathroom?"

"Catheter for the bathroom. IV for food and water."

Dean swiped at his eyes and cleared his throat gruffly. "Yeah, I'll … I gotta call you back, Bobby."

"Dean …"

But Dean disconnected the call and tossed his phone on the bed. Then he turned and threw a punch into the drywall next to the window, breath hitching. He looked over at the thing masquerading as his brother. It sat bolt upright in its chair, heels together, hands in its lap. It had shaved Sam's hair down to a buzz cut one morning last week before Dean woke up, and it was sporting the beginnings of facial hair.

It didn't look a thing like Sam.

At least until those moments when Sam was able to fight it. Then his doe-eyed brother would emerge, all goodness and light - terrified beyond words. Sam would beg him to make it stop, beg Dean to make his bonds tighter. And Dean would refuse until Sam began to share the thoughts inside his head. Then Dean would kneel in front of his little brother's chair and tighten the cords that secured him.

This was Dean's life now, had been for the past week.

He turned away from the thing-that-was-not-Sammy and hit redial.

"We're in." He said simply. Then he flipped the phone shut and stepped outside, giving the door a mighty slam behind him.

And in the chair, the h'ant threw back Sam's head and cackled.


	18. Tell Your Friends Jeeves is Busy

The car Dean jacked to make the drive up to Connecticut was a bit of a gas hog, but it had a spacious front seat, which was all that mattered.

Sam was miserable. He and Bobby were about to make him more miserable. At least the kid could have a comfortable ride until the shit hit the fan. Dean also stole all the pillows from both motel rooms and filled the backseat with them for those times when Sam might want to lie down.

Connecticut was hell and gone from Pennsylvania after all.

The older boy sighed, glancing right.

Sam sat in perfect profile against the morning sky. The kid wore his usual slouch - kicked back and man-spread - his head lolling back against the headrest.

He was completely Sam on this day.

Except for the handcuffs he wore hooked to his belt loop.

Dean couldn't trust the kid not to try and off him during the drive up, so he'd resorted to cuffing Sam's hands to the front belt loop of his jeans - certainly not a foolproof solution - but one that would slow Sam down enough for Dean to react if he needed to.

Dean studied him. "How ya feelin' there, Sammy?"

And damned if Sam didn't look over and shoot him a sad smile. "I'm good, Dean." then, "thanks …"

Dean frowned. "For what?"

"For doing this for me." He gestured to the cuffs and the car. "For keeping me safe. For putting up with me."

Dean shook his head, heart cracking. "You're my pain-in-the-ass little brother. What else would I do?"

But Sam just smiled that sad little smile and turned to look out the window.

He was all Sam today, had been since the morning. If Dean had worried about getting the boy into the car and safely away, he needn't have. Sam was compliant to a fault, which was going to make his next move all that much harder. Dean had almost wished to ride up with that Smalley asshole so that it wouldn't feel like such a betrayal when he handed the kid off to Bobby and his doctor friend.

But of course, fate hadn't cooperated. And the person sitting next to him on the car's spacious bench seat was his goofy kid brother right down to the too-baggy jeans and the trademark slouch. And even worse, the kid knew something was up. Dean was certain that was why Smalley had receded into the background. The h'ant knew they had a plan, although it didn't know what it was because Sam didn't know. Dean couldn't alert one without alerting the other. And if the h'ant caught wind of the whole ordeal being temporary, it would never leave.

So Sammy had no idea what was waiting for him in the Nutmeg State, and what the hell was nutmeg anyway?

But he knew something was in the wind, Dean could tell. Every now and then, the kid got that panicked look in his eye like shit was about to go down. And he'd turn to Dean and just stare at him with that little-boy-lost look that was always Dean's undoing.

But Dean knew there was too much at stake this time.

Sam couldn't get wind of the plan.

And so he'd toss a fake smile in Sam's direction and turn up the radio for a song or two until Sam gave up and resumed his study of the farmland rolling by on the right.

Dean would turn away then and swipe at his eye with his sleeve and keep on driving.

"Dean! Look!" Sam breathed exuberantly, huge smile forming.

Dean followed Sam's eyes but saw nothing but acres and acres of mowed-down corn stalks. "What Sam? What did you see?"

"Right there!" Sam tried to point, but the handcuffs caught on his belt loop and prevented the follow through, and Dean died a thousand deaths at the small, frustrated sound the kid made. "Look! It's the biggest pumpkin patch I've ever seen!"

Dean looked again, and the kid was right. They were coming up on what looked like acres and acres of bright orange pumpkins scattered everywhere on the ground. Families traipsed back and forth among them, looking, touching, lifting the pumpkins for weight. Kids knelt and wrapped spindly arms around the biggest orbs, giggling while proud moms snapped pictures.

"Look! They have a corn maze!" Sam exclaimed. He read from the sign as they passed by, "Welcome to Berks' County's largest 13-acre corn maze. Tell your friends you got lost in Berks' County, PA."

Sam giggled, "Tell your friends you got lost in Berks' County, PA, Dean." That's the best slogan ever!"

And Dean smiled as he died a little inside. This was just the type of thing Sam loved, and Dean knew the kid would give just about anything to pull over and spend a few hours roaming the place. And he knew when Sam looked over at him again that it was on the tip of the kid's tongue to ask, but maybe it was the look of panic on Dean's face that discouraged him.

Or maybe it was the fear of what might happen if Sam got out of the handcuffs. For whichever reason, Sam didn't ask, and Dean didn't offer. Sam just craned his neck as far as it would go as they passed the farm, watching until it was long gone behind them. He settled back into his seat then and chuckled quietly, "Tell your friends you got lost in Berks' County, PA."

The car was silent for a few miles, and then Sam spoke up, "Mindy was in FFA."

Dean blinked, "FF what?"

"FFA - Future Farmers of America. Her dad raised corn. She had show rabbits."

"Show rabbits?"

"Yeah, like - she took them to shows and things. She won awards. Show rabbit awards."

"Hunh. Who knew?"

Sam was silent, then, "I wish I could have said goodbye." He said quietly, almost to himself.

Dean looked over and saw the kid all folded in on himself. "I'm sorry, Sam. I just … I didn't think it would be a good idea."

Sam turned surprised eyes on him. "I know, Dean. I didn't mean to complain or anything. I know this … this is all my own fault. If I hadn't put those things on … maybe I could still be on the trail with the girls." Sam's eyes lit up, "That would have been so cool, Dean - you and me and the girls, hiking up to New England together." Sam paused, "Why'd I have to ruin it all? Typical."

Dean frowned. "That's enough of that. It's like you said, Sammy. It was just a mistake. People make 'em all the time."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Not mistakes like this one."

"It's not your fault this thing fixated on you, Sam. You were trying to do a good thing."

Sam shrugged, "Yeah. I know."

Dean studied him, "You know, I told the girls you'd contact them later on. Got their addresses."

Sam's face lit up. "You did? Can I see them?"

Dean bit his lip. He shook his head. "Later, Sammy, okay?"

Sam stared for a moment, not understanding. Then his face flushed a bright pink, and Dean saw his eyes fill up. He nodded and looked away, understanding that he couldn't be trusted not to hunt the girls down and hurt them."

Dean tried for damage control. "It's just … you know … they're in the trunk with my duffle."

Sam tried to swipe at his eyes, "Yeah, it's okay, Dean. Later. Thanks for thinking of that."

Dean shook his head in anger at the ridiculousness of this whole thing. His kid brother was the most self-sacrificing person he'd ever known. If there was anyone anywhere who didn't deserve this shit …

He cleared his throat. "I, uh, told them who I was and got two big hugs, by the way. Apparently, somewhere along the way, they'd gotten the idea that I'd have kicked Dad's ass for hitting you if I'd been there."

Sam snorted.

Dean grinned, continuing. "I just told them you'd had this thing since childhood and the stress and hiking was making it worse. I had to take you to our family doctor in Connecticut."

Sam laughed out loud. "Our family doctor in Connecticut? Why didn't you just have the family chauffeur drive us up, Dean? I mean, really, jacking a car is so … last year."

"Shut it, bitch. Jeeves was busy."

"Oh, that's right … the coronation! I forgot."

"You know, Jeeves doesn't exist wholly for your own entertainment, Sam. The guy has a life, you know."

"What can I say? Spoiled rich kid here." Sam aimed two thumbs at himself and broke down in giggles.

"That's it. I am so using up your half of the trust fund, bitch."


	19. Scare Tactics

_**Author's Note:** Thank you for all the kind reviews and feedback on this story. Mostly, thanks for just hanging in there so very patiently. It's taken a while to get to this point, but the muse machine seems to be back up and running, so hopefully, the story progresses smoothly from this point on. Should I apologize in advance for what I'm about to do to poor Sammy? Have you met me? (Insert evil laugh here.)_

"So … where are we?" Sam asked hesitantly. He sat staring at the long, low building that could have just as easily been a warehouse as a doctor's office. And when his eyes met Dean's, there was a look there that Dean couldn't quite decipher. It looked like … betrayal?

Sam was worried. Dean could tell by the way the kid was biting his lip. And in his lap, Sam's hands clenched and un-clenched in nervous repetition just like they always did before a big hunt - before any hunt, really. Sam had always been scared of hunting, and Dean had always known this.

Still, here they were.

Dean tried his best to look cheerful. "A scientist friend of Bobby's is gonna help us, Sammy. Bobby says he really knows his stuff." He turned sideways in the seat to face his brother full-on. He placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder. "He's gonna fix this, Sam. I mean it. It's all gonna be okay. YOU'RE gonna be okay. You trust me, right?"

Sam tried to smile back. He bobbed his head nervously. "Al-always." He said. And Dean could tell by the way he stuttered, the kid was a few pegs past terrified.

"And Bobby's meeting us here, so that's good news, right?"

Sam's smile was genuine this time. "He is?"

"Yep."

Sam was silent for a moment. "Is … is Dad here?"

Dean had been waiting for that question, not sure how he planned to answer it until it came. "No, Sam. I haven't told Dad any of this. I just … I thought it'd be easier if … if it was just us and Bobby and his friend. Is that okay? I mean, you want me to call him?"

Sam's eyes widened, and he shook his head. "No. Don't call him, Dean. Please?"

Dean smiled. "You got it, Geekboy. Now let's go see what the plan is."

But Dean already knew the plan, and he had a feeling that Sam knew that too. It was the reason why Dean would reject the proffered cup of hot coffee at the door and opt for whiskey instead. Both he and Bobby knew Sam always craved hot, sweet coffee at the end of any journey, and that's where they planned to put the initial sedative.

"Dean?" Sam motioned questioningly to his cuffs, and that was the moment Dean realized there were other people milling about on the street. He glanced upward to see Sam's face tinged in pink at the thought of crossing the parking lot in handcuffs.

"I got you." Dean replied, shrugging out of his jacket and adjusting it so it draped over the chains that bound his brother's wrists. To an observer, it simply looked like Sam clutched his jacket in both hands instead of wearing it. "That good?"

Sam smiled and nodded in relief, and his look of gratitude was so great for such a small gesture that Dean felt tears gathering at the corners of both eyes. He looked away, clearing his throat. "Let's go."

Sam nodded and popped his door open, and by the time he'd stepped out onto the asphalt and closed it behind him, Dean was there. The boys walked side-by-side, and it was all Dean could do not to hold onto his brother physically in case the h'ant decided to bolt before the festivities began. But now was not the time to show fear or doubt. Sam was already terrified enough, and Dean was damned if he'd knowingly do anything to add to it. Instead, he held the door open for the kid as they crossed into the comfortable lobby. The lighting was soft, and low music played somewhere over a sound system. Dean could smell … was that lavender? He glanced over at Sam to see if the atmosphere was helping him to relax a bit, but by the rapid way the kid was breathing and the wideness of his eyes, Dean could tell all their preparations had been less than effective.

Fuck Smalley for making Sam be the one to do this. Dean seethed. The fucking pervert had been present nearly 24/7 for the past week while Sam and Dean sat safely in the motel room in Pennsylvania. But the moment it looked like shit might happen, the coward backed down and pushed his little brother to the forefront to take the blows. He snaked an arm around the kid's shoulders and tugged him close.

"Shit, Sam. You're shaking."

Sam shook his head, "I'm okay." he said, but his voice was too high-pitched.

"Yeah? Well, I'm unconvinced. Just … try to relax okay? Damn Sammy, you look like you're walking your last mile."

Sam looked over at him then, a question in his eyes.

"Sam?"

"It is, isn't it?"

Dean was lost. "Is what?"

Sam cleared his throat, "My last mile? That's what this place is, right?"

Dean stopped and stared, "What?"

Sam's eyes teared up and spilled over. "I've seen this place on television, Dean. This is the Transitions Clinic. It's controversial as hell."

Dean frowned, "What are you talking about?"

Sam sighed, but at least it sidetracked him from the thoughts running through his head. "They give lethal injections here, Dean - assisted suicide for people who are terminally ill. This place has been all over the news."

And as Dean tried to process this new information, a man approached him, smiling and holding out his hand. And damned if Sam wasn't right. Dean recognized the guy instantly. He'd been on CNN as recently as last week.

"Son of a …" Dean took a step backward, placing himself directly in front of his brother and forcing them both a step back. "Sam. Go wait in the car." He ordered, suddenly not caring what tricks the h'ant might have up its sleeve. If this asshole thought he was going to end Sam's life with a needle while Dean stood by nodding, the bastard was in for a big surprise.

As for Sam, he didn't have to hear his brother's instructions twice. He turned and immediately made for the door, but two men in white coats were suddenly there, blocking his exit.

"Dean!" Sam's voice was shot through with fear, and the older boy turned to see two lab workers advancing on his cuffed and terrified brother.

"Don't touch him!" Dean threatened. "Don't you lay a finger on him. You hear me?" He took Sam by the arm and shoved the kid's slight from behind him as his eyes began roaming the room for an alternate escape route. "Bobby!" He shouted, "Bobby! You here?" Dean called desperately, backing them both up and into the corner.

The man who owned the clinic spoke calmly. "You must be Sam and Dean. I'm Dr. Havens. I'm Bobby's friend. He told me you were coming." He gestured to the men by the door and one of them turned and snicked the lock, and Dean heard Sam whimper behind him.

"Yeah, we know who you are, Doc. And you ain't gettin' within 20 feet of my brother. Where's Bobby?"

"Let's just all calm down, shall we?" The doctor replied. "Bobby will be here any minute. Why don't we get you both some coffee?" He gestured to one of the attendants who turned to splash steaming liquid into two foam cups, and as the boys watched, the man removed a packet of powder from a pocket and stirred it liberally through both. He turned and brought the cups to Dean and Sam.

Dean stared at the doctor. "Do we look like idiots? What the hell was that?"

Dr. Havens shot the attendant a look that might have killed a lesser man. "I have no idea. Really, Jenkins? Some finesse would be nice."

Jenkins just shrugged, "Finesse ain't worth shit, Doc." The man said, and without warning, he leaned forward and upended the cup of steaming brew right down the front of Dean's shirt.

Dean jumped back, gasping. He tugged the molten material away from his chest and sank to his knees.

"No!" He heard Sam scream. "Why did you do that? Don't hurt him! Please!"

"It's called a distraction, kid." Jenkins grinned cruelly as he reached over and snagged the boy's arm. He gave Sam a vicious tug that brought the kid right to him. He grasped both sides of Sam's chin and dug his fingers in deep. "Now you listen to me, you little creep. There's a table set up back here with your name on it. Let's get this party started."

"Jenkins." Dr. Haven sighed, as Sam whimpered in fear. "This is not how we treat friends." and he stepped forward and tazered the man, the electricity taking Sam down just as effectively.

"No! Sam!" Dean watched in horror as the pair lay twitching on the remarkably clean carpet of the lobby of the Transition Clinic.

And in the background, a sudden whiff of lavender scented the room as, somewhere, a symphony orchestra built to a deafening crescendo.

###

It took the remaining attendant, Dr. Haven and two more burly guys in lab coats to hold Dean back while two women loaded Sam onto a gurney, strapped him down and wheeled him, still in spasms, through double doors that locked behind them.

The instant they were out of sight, all hands were off Dean, and Bobby materialized through a door off to the right.

And he was pissed. He strode straight to Dean and stared into his pain-filled and panic-stricken eyes. He turned to glare at Havens. "I ought to lay you out right here, you son-of-a-bitch."

But Havens shook his head apologetically. "I told you, Singer. Watching wasn't a good idea."

But Bobby wasn't swayed. "You hurt my boys. Nobody hurts my kids. You got that?"

Havens sighed. "It was a show, Bobby. At least I guess this means it was authentic." the doctor handed Dean a towel. "I'm sorry for the hot coffee, Dean. But we had to make it look real."

Dean ignored the towel, looking lost. "Where are they taking him? What are they gonna do to him, Bobby!"

Bobby shook his head, sorrow in his voice. "They're trying to scare him, Dean. That's all. No one's gonna hurt Sam."

"No one's gonna hurt Sam?" Dean parroted incredulously. "In case you didn't notice, Bobby. The sons-a-bitches tazered him! Sure look like it hurt to me."

"Only for a wee bit." Jenkins said, rising from the floor and rubbing at his chest. "The effects are already wearing off for young Sam. He'll soon be right as rain." The man clapped a friendly paw down on Dean's shoulder. "Tis sorry I am 'boot the coffee, laddie. But you understand. We hadda make it look real."

Dean looked so lost, Bobby reckoned the kid couldn't find his way with a road map at the moment.

"Contrary to what you've probably heard, Dean." Dr. Havens explained. "We don't kill people here. Assisted suicide is still illegal in Connecticut, and even if it wasn't, there's an obvious ethical issue. We just needed Sam, and ultimately, Smalley, to THINK this is the end of the line."

Dean's face fell. He turned to Bobby. "Bobby … he thinks … he thinks he's gonna die …"

Bobby pulled him in close, thumped him on the back. "I know, son. It truly sucks. But if we don't stop this thing here, today, he will die, Dean. You gotta keep hold of the big picture."

"Here, Dean. Have a seat, and I'll have someone take a look at that for you." Dr. Havens suggested, gesturing toward one of the plushy couches. He picked up a phone and uttered a few words, and a nurse was suddenly in the room with them. She smiled at Dean and gently set about unbuttoning his shirt and checking his injury. He tried to put her off, but one stern look from Bobby was all it took to cowl him into cooperating. "We need you strong for Sam, Dean." Bobby demanded. "Let her look, you stubborn idjit."

Bobby turned to Havens. "So what now?"

"Now we make it look real. You said Sam is a smart cookie. We're betting on the fact that he knows what a lethal injection set-up looks like. We have him in one of our therapy rooms, and they're bringing in the syringes and things now." Havens turned to Dean. "This is where it gets difficult, Dean."

The older boy looked up, disbelief written across his face like ink. "GETS difficult? NOW it gets difficult? How the hell could it get any worse?"

Havens looked troubled. "Now you have to say your goodbyes."

Dean shot up from the couch, a snarl on his face. "What the hell are you playin' at? I should just end you right now." He turned to Bobby. "You trust this asshole?"

Bobby nodded immediately. "You gotta think about it like this, Dean. If this don't work. If this don't scare Smalley into letting go of your brother, then the next step is sensory deprivation, coupled with painful stimuli, for God knows how long."

"What the hell does that even mean, Bobby?" Dean growled, so over this whole thing.

"It means we strap him down, take away all his senses but touch, and begin poking him with needles." Havens stated simply. "None of us wants to do that, son."

Dean turned green. "I'm gonna puke."

"Come on." The nurse said quietly, leading him back to the couch. She helped him lean forward and place his head between his knees.

"It'll work, Dean. It has to." Bobby lamented. He turned to Havens. "I'll go first."


	20. Put the Heart Crosswise

Bobby returned, pale, shaken and as distraught as Dean had ever seen him. He shook his head at Dean as he held out his cuffed hands for Havens to unlock.

Dean stared, 'He's … he's okay though, right?"

Bobby sank into a seat and dug out a bedraggled handkerchief. "There ain't nothing okay about this whole damned situation." He said, blowing his nose and shaking his head. He looked at Havens. "Kids eyes have changed color."

But it was Jenkins who answered him. "Aye." the man said, sinking sadly down into the nearest chair. "Ah've seen this before in me hometown o' Killarney. A wee dot on tha map, tis, but has it's overshare o' h'ants." He looked at Bobby. "The thing is overtaken' yer lad. Soon, the h'ant will be all that's left of young Sam."

Dean glared angrily at the Irishman as he processed this new information. "You're a hunter?"

Jenkins nodded. "Guilty as charged, laddie. Tis why Byron here," He gestured to Havens, "rang me up. A sort of a specialist I am in these matters. H'ants are native to me homeland of Ireland, ya know."

"Then what the hell is it doing here?" Bobby interrupted.

Jenkins shrugged. "Yer man, Smalley - Byron says he was a soldier?"

Dean nodded.

"Well, soldiers travel, aye? Tis no doubt how the h'ant came to be lyin' in wait on your American hiking trail."

Jenkins held out his hand to Dean. "Me name's Byrne, by the by. Donnchad Byrne." He winked. "When all this unpleasantness is behind us, and we've saved yer bruther, ye can call me Donnie."

Dean stared at the proffered hand suspiciously before reaching out and grasping it in a firm grip.

Byrne winced. "Tis a good, tight grip ye have there, son. Ah'm thinkin' ah deserved tha'." He winked again, taking a moment to massage his hand before offering it, in turn, to Bobby.

"You can kill it?" Bobby asked, taking the hand.

Byrne nodded. "I ken kill it, Bobby. I promise ye. How do you American chaps say it? Tis not me first roundup."

Dean glared, "Yeah, it ain't our first rodeo either. He turned to Bobby, "What did you tell Sam?"

Bobby sighed. "Told him I trusted the wrong people. Told him I thought Havens was a friend but it turned out he lured us here so he could hunt the h'ant inside Sam."

"And he bought it?"

Bobby turned to stare blankly out the window. "He bought it."

"No sign of Smalley?" Havens asked hopefully.

Bobby shook his head. "Just the eyes."

Dean sat silent, then … "I don't think I can do this, Bobby."

Bobby snorted. "You and me both, kid."

Dean's voice shook, "I don't think I can go in there and pretend I'm a prisoner and that I'm just gonna stand by while some hunter we don't know kills Sam." He looked up pleadingly. "Sam's not gonna buy it."

Bobby turned from the window, snarling, "Well balls, Dean! Then you better damned well sell it to him! Otherwise, this whole shit storm has been for nothing!"

Dean shot up from his chair angrily and held out his hands as Havens shackled him. He nodded as Byrne stepped to his side and grabbed him by the elbow. "In we go, laddie." Byrne soothed. "Tis jest this last bad bit o' bad road to git through, aye?" He patted Dean on the shoulder, "Then 'twill be all right wi' the world again."

Dean raised his hands to rub at his face, "Yeah, whatever."

Byrne slid his pass card under the wall scanner, and the double doors opened wide, and the first thing Dean noticed was the silence.

He was expecting … well, hell, he didn't know what he was expecting, but he knew it wasn't this endless expanse of beige walls and his own boot steps that echoed deceptively like gunshots along the corridor.

Byrne led him to a locked door that had no window, and he stopped and looked at the younger boy. "Yer ready fer this, lad?"

Dean nodded, steeling himself, as Byrne unlocked the door with his passkey and shoved Dean unceremoniously inside.

And Sam … Sam was …

He was down to just his tee shirt and boxers, strapped down to a metal table by leather restraints that passed over his chest, hips and ankles. His hands had been un-cuffed and his arms stretched straight out at his sides before they, too, were fastened down to bolts in the table. Sam's body formed a "T," and he shivered from the cold in the room.

Dean stopped as the sight imprinted itself on his brain forever, and then damned if Sammy didn't turn his head toward Dean and smile.

The kid's eyes were nearly swollen shut, and Dean could tell he'd been crying - hard. Sam opened the hand that was closest to his brother as though reaching out for him, and on autopilot, Dean's body moved forward and enveloped the frigid extremity in both of his own.

"Sammy." He managed, voice broken.

"Dean." Sam worried. "You okay? They didn't hurt you, did they? The coffee …?"

And Dean nearly lost it on the spot. If that wasn't just like Sam to worry about Dean when he, himself, was in the most dire situation of his young life so far.

Dean shook his head, barely able to use his voice. "Sammy, you're so cold." he whispered.

But Sam just shrugged. "It's okay, Dean. Bobby said … I … I know what's going on, and it's okay."

Dean turned to Byrne, eyes pleading. "Please, take these off. Please." He held out his hands for the removal of the cuffs, and for a moment, Dean thought the man would decline. But apparently, Dean's distress was more than even the seasoned hunter could bear. After a moment of indecision, the burly man fished out the key and freed Dean's hands.

The older boy immediately shrugged out of his overshirt and placed it across his brother's shivering form.

"There, Sammy. Let's get you warmed up a bit, hunh?" He ran his hands briskly up and down Sam's bare arms, trying to create warmth from the friction. "They could at least turn up the heat a little in here, right?" He tried for a joke.

Sam swallowed hard. "It's supposed to be for my comfort. They said … the … the medicine will b-burn a little." Sam's voice hitched and he turned his face away until he got a bit of control back. Then, "Thanks, Dean." He smiled again. "It smells like you."

Dean was still reeling from that bit of news as he glanced down, "What?"

"Your shirt. It smells good … like … like … home, I guess."

And at those words, Dean couldn't stop the sob that rose deep in his chest and threatened to consume him. He turned away, hand over his eyes, and stood facing away from his brother, shoulders shaking.

"Dean. Don't."

But that just made it worse as Dean's grief became audible.

"Dean. Please." Sam pleaded, his voice breaking. "Please don't. I … I need ... " Whatever Sam needed was cut off by the sob he couldn't push back. He was full-on crying then, embarrassing and messy, and Dean knew the kid hated being that out of control.

So the older boy did what he'd always done - he pushed his own feelings down and away and made himself be strong for his little brother. He swiped at both eyes and turned to Byrne.

"Please give us a minute. Please." He pleaded, unaccustomed to begging. But for Sam … there was no act too degrading.

Byrne nodded. "I'll be just outside." Then, snarling. "Don't try anything, kid. You hear me?"

Dean glared, not answering, and turned back to his brother, whispering quietly in his ear. He pulled out his handkerchief. "Shh, Sammy." He muttered, smiling down into his brother's terrified eyes. "I'm here, okay? I'm here, and I ain't goin' anywhere. Here." And he gently wiped at the tears wetting Sam's cheeks.

"Blow." He commanded, and Sam laugh-snorted, but he blew anyway.

Dean nodded approvingly. "Did I get it?" He asked, crumbling the cloth and shoving it back into his pocket.

Sam nodded, his smile back, but a second later he stared up at Dean, a question in his eyes. "You … you c-can't stop this, right?" he asked, hopeful.

Dean swallowed and looked away, shaking his head.

Sam breathed deep, trying to calm himself. "Okay." He whispered, more to himself than to Dean. "Okay."

They were interrupted then by a female attendant who entered the room and walked past them both. She averted her eyes as she moved to the far corner, but both boys watched as she retrieved a small rolling table and brought it to Sam's side. It contained a single syringe, a bag of IV fluids and a small, brown, ominous-looking vial.

"It's time." She said simply, still not meeting their eyes. She tugged a metal rod up from the edge of the table, and it became a hook on which she hung the IV bag. She looked at Dean then.

"If there's anyone else who needs to be here," She said, "This is the time."

Dean's haunted eyes met Sam's, and the boy shook his head. "You don't have to stay, Dean. I understand."

Dean's eyes went wide. "Ain't no way in hell I'm leaving you, Sammy." He replied. "But Bobby …"

"No." Sam was adamant. "No, don't make him watch. And Dean, you have to promise me something, okay?"

Dean nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Anything, Sammy."

"Don't let Bobby blame himself. You know he will. It's not his fault, Dean. Make sure he knows that I know that, okay? When he was here earlier, I … was … I was too scared to really … you know … say that. And you … this isn't your fault either, Dean. I know you'll try to make it into some way you failed me, but it's not. You have to promise me you won't do that."

"Sammy …"

"Promise me, Dean."

Dean stared down at the kid he'd change places with in a heartbeat and managed a jerky nod. "I promise, Sam."

Suddenly Bobby stood next to Dean and placed a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Sam." the old hunter said, unable to go on.

But Sam just smiled, resigned. "It's gonna be okay, Bobby." But then he flinched as the attendant inserted the IV cannula in his arm.

Dean slipped up onto the table then, stretching the length of his body beside and partly over the shivering kid and cradled the boy's head in both hands. He pressed their foreheads together. "I'm here, Sammy. I'm right here." He pulled back and stared into Sam's terrified eyes. "Eyes right here, little brother. Come on. Look at me, only at me."

The attendant taped the cannula in place and began attaching the IV, and Sam whined.

"Hey, hey, hey, Sammy. Right here. Come on, man. Look at me. It's gonna be okay."

Sam looked into Dean's eyes as he whispered. "I'm sc-scared, Dean. I'm s-so scared. It's gonna hurt."

Dean's eyes spilled over, but his voice was unwavering as the woman started the IV drip and flicked the line a few times to get the fluid started. "Listen to me, Sam. I'm right here, okay? Me and Bobby. We're here, and we ain't leavin' okay? We'll help you through this, and then I'll find a way to bring you back, little brother. I promise. This ain't goodbye, Sammy. You hear me? It ain't goodbye."

Sam's breath hitched as he nodded, and Dean gently caressed his cold cheek with a thumb. He brought their foreheads together again and began humming aimlessly. It was one of Dad's old rock songs they'd listened to for at least a million miles in the Impala, and Dean knew it would bring Sam comfort.

"Tell Dad I'm sorry." Sam whispered. "Tell him …"

"This is probably going to burn a bit going in." The woman interrupted. "I'm sorry." She began adding the contents of the vial to Sam's IV.

"Dean!" Sam cried, more in a reflex action than anything else. His brother's name had always been Sam's go-to word anytime he was scared, and it was fitting that it would be his last.

Dean's hands tightened around Sam's face. "Right here, little brother. I'm right here. It's okay, Sammy. It's gonna be okay. Shhh …"

Behind him, Dean could hear Bobby trying and failing to stifle his feelings, but he was distracted then by Sam's body going taut beneath him.

"Dean …" Sam said once more as his body convulsed once, then went limp.

Dean pulled back and watched Sam's face closely. His brother stared up at him for a heartbeat in time, and then the boy's eyes slowly closed.

"Sammy?" Dean breathed, praying the powerful sedative would be enough to fool the h'ant.

And for a moment that felt like a year, nothing happened.

Then Sam's eyes opened again, still bright green, and he stared into Dean's face. From his depths a cackle erupted. "You killed him! You killed your brother for nothing!" And a wild bout of maniacal laughter filled the small room.

Dean watched silently, suitably horrified, as the color began slowly to drain from the corners of Sam's eyes like tears. Bright rivulets of green ran down Sam's temples and through the stubble on his head and splattered onto the floor below until his eyes were again hazel. His lids drifted shut as Byrne began reciting the incantation.

Dean raised himself up over Sam's body and peeked over the edge of the table to see what impact the hunter's words would have on the vivid puddles that looked like thick, green ink. And as the ancient Latin reverberated throughout the room, the puddles began to dry up and crust over until they were an ugly, dead, brown color.

And then they were dust.

And then they were gone.

Dean looked up at Bobby, hopeful. "Did it work?"

But it was Byrne who answered him. "Aye, laddie. Put the heart crossways in 'im, it did. Yer bruther will be right as rain again in no time."

Dean sobbed then. He couldn't help it. He lowered himself back down over Sam's body and pressed an ear to the boy's chest. Sam's heart beat slow but steady beneath the layers of shirts, and Dean raised up to cradle the kid's cheek in his hand.

"Rest now, Sammy." He whispered fondly. "You've earned it, little brother."


	21. Lost Time

The woman who leaned over him spoke softly, but Sam couldn't make out the words. She had kind eyes encircled by a halo of blond hair, and her hands were gentle where she touched him.

And Sam smiled.

"Mom …" He breathed.

She shook her head and said something to him, but he couldn't quite catch the words.

Sam reached up and touched the woman's arm.

"Mom." He said again, as his eyes began to clear, and her voice began to penetrate his fog.

"Aw, honey. I ain't your momma, you poor, sweet child." She patted him on the arm. "You got family here though." She said smiling. She nodded to Sam's chest, and he looked down.

A hand rested there.

Sam looked right and followed the hand to an arm and an arm to his brother. Dean slumbered beside him on a large, comfortable bed - too large and too comfortable to be a motel model, and Sam's memory washed over him like a storm, sadness engulfing the boy.

Whatever Dean had done to join him here, there was no doubt in Sam's mind, he shouldn't have done it.

"Dean. No." He whispered, mourning all the years Dean should have had left. Sam's hand found his brother's and he squeezed. "Dean. Why?"

Dean's eyes opened as if on command, and blinked once. He was awake then, and staring at Sam with a smile on his face. Dean raised himself up on one elbow and grasped Sam's fingers in his own.

"Sammy." He grinned. "Welcome back, little brother."

"Dean. No." Sam whispered. "You … why?"

Dean's grin faltered then, and guilt overrode his expression. A single tear welled up and spilled over, and Sam watched it trail down the older boy's cheek until it disappeared beneath his chin.

"Sammy." He said again, voice cracking. "Please …"

"Dean, you shouldn't … you can't be here, okay? It's not … you're not supposed to be here. Mom …"

Dean frowned then, understanding that Sam was confused. "Sam, listen to me …"

But Sam's eyes wandered around the room, taking in the understated, elegant decor and soft illumination. His eyes settled on Dean. "Is this heaven?" he asked softly. "Dean, what did you do?"

Dean's voice broke then, "Holy shit, Sammy. Listen to me, kid. Please."

Sam listened then. He couldn't not listen when Dean pleaded like that.

"This ain't heaven, Sammy. It's the clinic. All of that, Sam, it was ... We had to scare the h'ant and that meant scaring you too. I'm so sorry, kiddo." Dean studied Sam, waiting for the reaction he dreaded. "It was just something to make you sleep, Sammy. That's all. I swear."

Sam's brain tried to process this new information. "You … I'm not … not dead?"

Dean shook his head. "I'd never, Sammy. I'd fight to the death before I'd let someone do that to you. I'm sorry. It was … it was the only way, I swear."

Sam swallowed, thinking of all those miserable days under the h'ant's control. "Did it work?" He rasped out. "Is it g-gone?"

Dean nodded, then, and grinned. "Damn straight it worked. Bastards' gone, Sam. He ain't ever gonna bother you again."

Sam looked away, overcome. He felt like maybe he was falling apart a tiny piece at a time and soon there'd be nothing left. He tried to push the fear and sadness and grief back, but all it took was one small sob for the dam to fail, and after that came the flood.

Dean was on him in an instant. The older boy tugged him close and wrapped a hand around the back of his head. "S'okay, Sammy." Dean crooned. "S'okay, little brother. Let it out. Just let it all out. You're safe now. You're safe, Sammy."

##########

Dean shoulder-bumped Sam, making the kid drop the pumpkin he was holding.

"Dean!" Sam sighed, exasperated. "Just let me pick one, all ready? I just want two little ones to give the girls when we meet up with them down by the state line, something small I can tuck in my pack." He swiped a hand across his sweaty brow, wiping it on the doo rag that covered his closely cropped hair.

It was different look for the kid, but one Dean had quickly grown fond of. The doo rag, coupled with Sam's new affinity for facial hair suited Sam. Made him look a little bad-ass, kind of like a baby biker. Dean snorted at the thought. Still, he couldn't resist messing with the kid. "What about this one, Sam?" He asked, nudging an orange orb with his boot. The pumpkin was one some kid had painted. It had one little eye and one large, garish eye that sort of faded up and away over the pumpkin's top. "Sort of looks like you, even."

Sam looked and giggled.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude. You can't wear the rag on your head and the hair on your face if you're gonna giggle like a little girl. It's disturbing."

"Ooh, big word, Dean. Did you hurt yourself?" Sam teased, returning to his perusal of the pumpkins on display. He frowned.

Dean saw and wasn't having it. "What's wrong, Chicken Little. Sky falling?"

Sam shrugged, "I dunno. Just … buyin' one from the lot isn't the same as picking it out yourself out in the field. It's too bad we missed the last hayride out." He lamented.

Dean looked and pointed. "Right there." He said, gesturing to the hay wagon that was just pulling out from the platform where families had just boarded.

The boys exchanged looks and grinned, then both hiked up their packs and took off running to catch the last ride out. And nearby, a local lifestyle reporter froze those two grins forever with a simple click of his shutter. He looked down at his screen and smiled, realizing he finally had the photo for next day's front page.

########

"'Morning Dad." Ty yawned, padding into the kitchen and heading straight for the refrigerator.

"Morning, Ty." Carl replied, "Juice is over here." He tilted his head to the carton of orange juice that sat sweating on the table.

Ty changed direction with the flexibility only the very young or young at heart can manage. He flopped down across from his father and reached for the carton. As he pulled it toward him, a bead of water dripped off the bottom and fell onto the front page of the Frederick News, and two pair of eyes followed it down.

Ty gasped then as Carl began reading the featured story out loud with growing glee.

" _ **Pennsylvania Pumpkin Patch Delights Kids of all Ages"**_

 _Two unidentified visitors to the Berks' County Pumpkin Patch enjoy the day's festivities as twilight begins to set over 13 acres of munchkin, magic lantern and rascal pumpkins on the Beddingfield Farm south of New Ringgold yesterday. The Beddingfield Farm has been a declining tourist attraction for the past five years but is enjoying a new popularity this fall. It's estimated nearly 1,000 visitors, both local and from as far away as Sioux Falls, South Dakota, were on-site yesterday to enjoy hayrides out to the farm's locally famous pumpkin patch._

 _Owner Dave Beddingfield attributed the sudden uptick in business to the company's new, catchy slogan that refers to the farm's notoriously formidable corn maze, "Tell your friends you got lost in Berks County, PA."_

 _The slogan was penned by 13-year-old Deena Beddingfield as part of an assignment for her 7th grade writing class."_

Carl and Ty exchanged incredulous looks. "Dad! That's Sam, right?"

Carl nodded, smiling and sitting back in his chair, taking the paper with him. He studied the photo that took up the entire space above the fold. "And Dean too, I'd say. It appears they found each other, son."

Ty grinned and took a noisy drink of his juice. "They sure do look happy."

Carl nodded, feeling an odd sense of peace sweep over him. "They surely do, son. They surely do."

\- THE END -

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Thank you :)_


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